Things We've Lost, and Things We've Gained
by Skalidra
Summary: Instead of rejoining the Team when Nightwing offers him the chance, Roy decides to go solo as Arsenal. He needs somewhere to stay off the grid, so he meets up with his clone; Red Arrow. While there, the two get interrupted by a man who introduces himself to Roy as 'Jason.' They realize they have a lot in common; shitty family, for one. Maybe they can get along after all. - DCU Bang
1. Chapter 1

Hello! So you have have read a bit about my DCU_Bang fiction, and this is it! As you can read by the tags, it's a Jason/Roy. Mostly I just really wanted a third season of Young Justice, introducing a resurrected Jason, that plotline with Darkseid, and etc. XD So, yes. It'll be lots of fun, and you'll get to read the whole thing at once! By the way, the underage relationship is Jason/Roy. They're 17/15 at first sexual contact, and 17/16 at first actual sex.

I've also got art, done by the fantastic 'Biuebeetie'! It's for chapter 3, so there's a link on my profile to it. It's for chapter 3, so I'll put reminders about it at the top and bottom of that chapter, in case you want to wait and match it up to the scene it goes to.

 **No warnings** for this chapter, except maybe casual assassination? I don't know. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **June 23rd, 16:23.**

* * *

It still feels strange to knock at a door instead of kicking it down. Even worse, my right arm still twitches up to do the knocking before I remember to keep it firmly tucked inside the pocket of my sweatshirt.

Not a good thing to start a panic by showing off a robotic arm, even if this is kind of a shithole place and the residents — heavy fucking air quotes there — probably wouldn't do more than stare. Maybe wonder if they were high. Nobody in here has got the brains to connect me to the name Arsenal, and even if they did nobody's got the connections to do anything with it.

But I don't like the staring. I don't like people staring at me and my replacement limb, and nearly _feeling_ the pity or, worse, the jealousy in their gaze. I hate it. I've had enough of Oliver hovering over my shoulder and trying to play the dad now that it's way too fucking late. I've _definitely_ had enough of Nightwing's stupid team looking at me like I'm one step away from snapping, or like I'm fragile. I'm _in control_ , no matter what any of them think.

Yeah, I got their invitation to join the team again. I don't really blame Nightwing for kicking me off it, not _really_ , but I'm sure as hell not going to just sign back up like some kind of loyal lap dog. They don't like my methods, and I don't like their rules, so that works out great. I'd rather go solo anyway; I don't need a team watching my every move. All it means is that I've gotta set up everything to do this job myself, which means I'm going to need a base to crash at that isn't under the watchful eye of Oliver's security systems.

I knock again, a little more insistently, and then glare at the door when it doesn't immediately open. The flex of my suit against my skin, as I shift my weight, calms me down a little bit. I shove out a hard breath, staring at the small glass circle of the peephole.

It takes a few more seconds, but finally there's the flick of a lock and the knob turns. The door pulls inward, and a pair of blue eyes the exact same shade as mine flick their gaze down my frame and up again. I'm sure he knows that I've got my suit on under the street clothes, but he doesn't comment. The Clone steps back, opening the door wide enough I can get in and tilting his head to the side in invitation.

"Come on in."

I take the invitation, moving past him and glancing around his hideout. I got the address from Oliver, after some prying, but I was expecting something a little better than this place. It does look lived in, and I can see traces of the clone and his wife, Cheshire, scattered around the place. None of that hides the fact that it's kind of a dump, even if it's mostly clean.

The Clone closes the door, locking it again. "I'd appreciate it if you were quiet," he says plainly, as I watch him. "Lian's asleep. Drink?"

"And trust the water in this place? No thanks." He shrugs, leaning back against the wall beside the door and crossing his arms.

It _is_ good to know that I'm going to get taller, and bigger. I like how I am now — lean means fast, and I'll take fast over brute strength any day — but that doesn't mean I can't look forward to at least four more inches and some wider shoulders. It could be useful, and the knowledge that he's what I'll turn into means I can plan for it. He did alright, for a clone. I can do better.

"What can I do for you?" His tone is wary, like the look in his eyes.

No judgment there; we pretty much haven't really talked since I woke up in the hospital with him and Oliver at my bedside. I really don't blame him for any of the shit that happened, even if I'm still bitter that he got to live my life for the eight years I was frozen. He never stopped looking for me, and he damn well never asked to be created in the first place. He wasn't even around when Cadmus froze me, and he spent five of his eight years of existence hunting for me. I can be bitter, but I can't really hate him. _He_ didn't do anything wrong.

 _Oliver_ , on the other hand, and _Luthor_ …

"I need a safe house," I say, with no beating around the bush. I appreciate people being blunt, so will he. Sometimes it's fun to predict your own reactions to things. At the least it makes things a hell of a lot easier. "I'm not going back to the Team, and I'm really _done_ suffering Oliver behaving like I'm rabid one second and broken the next. I don't know how to make a safe house, clearly _you_ do. Make me one."

The Clone blinks; I recognize the expression on his face as slight confusion. "It's not really a safe house if someone knows where it is," he points out, pushing off the wall and heading around the counter and into the tiny kitchen.

"Going to turn me in to _Dad?_ "

He won't.

I wouldn't, and he's not different enough from me to actually take me back to Oliver and tell the bastard I was looking to get out from under him. Maybe he's got different experiences, and the last eight years made us different people, but I know that neither of us can stand not being free. Even if that's something as basic as having our own space, or as complicated as not letting anyone else order us around. Freedom is _everything_ , and I know my own personal screwed up parts made it _way_ more important than he probably thinks it is, but I felt this way back before any of this. Before Cadmus. I've always been more of a solo act.

So he'll be the same.

"Not unless you do something that makes me." He takes a jug of water from inside the refrigerator and fills a glass that comes from one of the higher cabinets. "What kind of safe house? Place to crash? Weapons storage? Tactical base? All of the above?"

"That a yes?"

"It's a maybe." He tilts the glass up and takes a drink, watching me over the rim. "You're going solo?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty done with the Team. You know what that feels like, right?" The Clone snorts; glances to the side for a second.

"Guess that's just in the blood," he answers. "So, what are you looking for? Bolt holes are easiest; simple places to crash. Real bases are the hardest; need to have a few easy escape routes as well as a hard one, and be soundproofed, unless you're willing to watch what you say." Another swallow from the cup of water. "Let me guess, you want a real base."

I raise the shoulder of my real arm in a one-sided shrug. He shakes his head with a quiet huff of a sigh.

"Yeah, thought so. Alright, well, it'll take me a bit. Gotta find a place, outfit it. You want to be around while I do it so you know how next time?" His gaze is steady; it's an honest offer. He probably just doesn't want to have to do this again; I know I wouldn't want to do a favor like this more than once. He's still got his guilt over taking my life, so he's easy to get favors out of. I take advantage, probably more than I should if I was going to even pretend to be nice.

"Just send me a sheet with the details. You've got my contact info, don't you?" I don't want to spend that much time around The Clone. He's decent enough, but I don't like being around the reminder of the arm I'm never going to have, and the life that was stolen from me. _I_ could have been the one with the wife and the kid — and the _arm_ — instead of the life I barely fit into anymore.

Life is all kinds of _great_ fun when you look sixteen, but your birth certificate and all forms of ID say you're twenty-three. I've gotten the cops called on me two times already. On the plus side, legally I can buy alcohol and no one can stop me. Not even Oliver, as much as he hates the idea of me abusing that privilege.

"Yeah," The Clone answers, "I've got it. I'll put together a step-by-step and send it your way." He sets the glass down on the counter separating us. "Need anything else? Fake identification, papers, gear? Anything I don't have, I could probably get Jade to pick up for me." His eyes narrow just a little bit, as he leans forward onto the counter. "You know, like all of that lethal weaponry that you really shouldn't have."

I raise an eyebrow, pulling my hand out of the sweatshirt's pocket to pointedly cross my arms. "Lethal weaponry is _part_ of me," I point out, "and last I checked arrows had _metal tips_. Plus, I'm done letting people tell me what I _should_ be doing. That's kind of the point of going solo."

The Clone makes a bit of a face, something like a grimace, and then shrugs as he straightens up. "Fair enough. Just keep my name out of this, alright? Got enough trouble on my plate without Oliver coming after me for helping you get away from him."

"You don't sell me out, I won't sell you out," is what I offer. "Sounds fair, do—"

The click of a lock makes both of us turn to the door. The clone tenses, hand dropping beneath the counter, and I twist to hide my metal arm behind the frame of my body. I try not to give my advantage away that fast. We stay in silence for the second it takes the door to open, and someone I don't recognize shoulders his way past it.

"Hey, Roy, so you said you'd be around and—" The stranger stops, the door falling shut behind him as he stares at me.

He looks young, my age or a little older. He's a few inches taller than me, musculature hidden by a sweatshirt not that different from mine, though red to my black. Black hair cut a little above his ears with a shock of white over his left temple, blue-green eyes that are narrowed and obviously studying, and a key that's halfway back to his pocket. He lights up instincts in me that scream he's dangerous, even if he doesn't look like much more than some average teenager.

An average teenager wouldn't have a key to my clone's apartment, or walk in without an invitation or a warning. In fact, if he walks in here _that_ casually he's gotta know who my clone is. Which means he knows them well, or he'd never walk into a house with a vigilante, an _assassin_ , and their daughter. That would be suicidal, or at least begging for a crippling injury from just their reflexes. Unless of course he's a vigilante himself, or something similar.

So he either knows them both, pretty well, or he thinks he can handle whatever they might do out of instinct before recognizing him.

The stranger's gaze flicks to the side for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to find my clone. Then he relaxes, tucking the key away into his pocket and holding both hands up to showcase that they're empty. Of course, he only holds that pose for another brief second, and then drops both hands to his sides.

"Am I interrupting something sensitive?" he asks. His voice is about as deep as my clone's, so a little lower than mine, but a little rough around the edges. It's not like anything I've heard before. He does sound sincere, if a bit guarded. "I can turn around and head back out; call you in a few?" He directs that last bit at my clone, who seems partially frozen behind the counter.

"We were done," I answer, before the Clone can come up with something to say. "Who are you?"

"This is—" my clone starts, and the stranger gives a small grin.

"Jason," the stranger answers, smoothly cutting the clone off. He takes a single step forward and offers his right hand. "You must be the original Roy; heard a lot about you over the years. You go by 'Arsenal,' right?"

In a split second decision I turn myself, bringing forward my metal arm to shake his hand. His gaze flicks down to it, and I can _see_ the studying edge to his eyes, but he doesn't comment. "Yes, on both counts." I probably grip harder than I should, but if it hurts he doesn't give any sign of it. "And you?"

"Red Hood," he says, grin flicking to a smirk for a moment. "You probably haven't heard of me. I'm fairly new to the name, and I've been staying mostly underneath the radar." He lets go of my hand, and turns his head to my clone. "Roy, I've got an asshole of a crime boss and he's a little more well guarded than I thought he was going to be. You in?"

The Clone hesitates, glancing between the two of us. His jaw sets, and then he gives a shallow sigh. "I can't leave Lian here alone, and after what happened to the Team… Jade's busy. I can't."

Jason rests both hands on his hips, but doesn't look even mildly disappointed, or irritated. "Alright, no problem. I'll handle it myself." He nods to me, seemingly carefree. "Nice to meet you, Roy. See you around sometime."

I'm not entirely sure what makes me say anything, maybe it's just some _feeling_ I get off of him, but before he can turn around I open my mouth. "This crimelord. Taking him down, or putting him in a prison?"

"Putting a bullet in his head, if things work out how they should." Jason pauses, eyes narrowing a touch. "That a problem for you?"

Huh. So, _not_ totally a hero. That could make him a lot more bearable to be around than any of the Team, or even my clone. I could use a distraction.

I step forward, towards him, and watch how the tiniest hint of tension stiffens his neck, before it loosens back up. "Sounds like a good time," I counter. "I'll come with. I could use a workout." I swear I hear a small, strangled noise from my clone, as Jason's eyes light with interest. Then his mouth flicks into a smirk.

"You any good, _Arsenal?_ "

His challenge makes a whole lot of me wake up and pay real attention. I close the distance between us with two steps, bringing us right up next to each other and invading his space. I lean in enough that I can spit, "Try me, _Jason_ ," right into his face.

He doesn't back down, or even look wary, and there's definitely a part of me that respects him for that. It takes some guts to go toe to toe with me, knowing who I am and at least some of what I can do. It takes more to actively challenge me like he just did, even if he was expecting me to back down. If he knows my clone, then he knew damn well I _wouldn't_ back down. Consequently, he's gotta think he can handle me even if I do get violent, or be _really_ sure that I'm not going to.

I watch his smirk flick into a small grin, blue-green eyes narrowed just enough that it feels dangerous more than friendly. "Alright, Original," he says quietly. "If you think you can keep up, you can come along."

"I don't remember asking for your _permission_." I match his volume, but my tone is more of a snarl and definitely not like his sharp-edged teasing one.

"You couldn't catch me if you didn't have it," he answers instantly. "I've seen what you can do, Arsenal. It's good, considering what happened to you, but not good enough to handle me. Not by a long shot." The last remnants of his grin wipes off his face, and he shifts his weight forward, bringing us a fraction closer together. "You can fight me over not _needing_ permission, or just come along. I definitely don't need _you_ , and if you're going to be a stubborn ass about it I'm going to leave you in the dust. I have _work_ to do."

"Got a pretty high opinion of yourself, don't you?" I flex the hand of my metal arm, considering activating one of the weapon systems. "You want to test that, _Jason?_ "

" _No_ fighting in my damn house," my clone snarls, from behind the counter, "or so help me I will drag you both out by the backs of your necks. Wake my daughter up and I will set Jade — who's been _looking_ for someone to vent her stress at — on both of you, got it?"

Jason glances to the side, breaking our face off. "I wouldn't start anything in your home, Roy." He looks back at me, eyes narrowing a little further. "Even if Original here is a stubborn, aggressive, little _bastard_."

"Arrogant, condescending, _jackass_ ," I counter.

"Out of my house," my clone commands, with a tone of voice that sounds like he wants it to be louder, but can't make it that way because Lian is still just a room over and asleep. "Get out of my _building_. In fact, don't you _dare_ start a fight anywhere in my whole neighborhood, and be _discreet_ if you two idiots are going to fight. Don't get any League attention."

Jason tilts his head in something like acceptance, stepping back and putting space between us. "I never catch the League's attention," he says with a snort. "That's what I'm good at, remember?" He turns, only sparing me a last glance before opening the door. He slips out, and a pointed, narrow-eyed glance from the Clone makes me follow him.

I barely remember to tuck my metal hand back inside my pocket before stepping into the outside hallway. Jason's standing outside, partially turned back towards me. I close the door and face him, as he studies me without even an attempt at hiding that that's what he's doing. After a few moments there's the click of a lock — my clone locking the door behind us — and Jason gives a tiny, exasperated shake of his head.

"You still interested in coming?" he asks, plainly.

"Haven't got anything else to do for right now." He might be kind of a dick, but if he's something like the Clone's friend he can't be that bad. Plus, unless some giant invasion happens, my choices of doing things are pretty limited. Patrol, and hope someone's stupid enough to be doing something back in Star, or head back to Oliver's house and try to avoid his attempts at family 'bonding.' Neither sounds like fun.

"You could just say 'yes.' Alright, you geared or need to stop somewhere first?"

"Decently, but not as much as I'd like. This time sensitive?" I can fight just fine with what I've got on me, especially if I can pilfer weapons from the guards, but I prefer going into jobs with a full stock, not just what I can hide under civilian clothes.

"Not really. I need to drop by one of my safe houses anyway." He reaches low, into one of the pockets of his cargo pockets, and comes out with a pen and a pad of plain white sticky notes. He scribbles something on one, tears it off, and tucks both tools away again. "Here." He steps close enough to hold out the sticky note to me, and I take it with a raised eyebrow. "That's the address we're headed to. Meet me on the roof in about two hours?"

I scan the address, not even vaguely recognizing it apart from knowing that it's still inside the state. That, only because it's got 'Washington D.C.' scrawled at the bottom. "Why so long?" I ask, tucking the note away inside the left hand pocket of my sweatshirt.

He shrugs, gives a small grin for just a second. "Giving you some leeway. I'm in no rush; guy works late so he'll still be there." He turns on one heel, and tosses over his shoulder, "See you then, Original."

"See you then." The response is automatic, and he doesn't acknowledge it with anything more than another flash of that small grin. I watch the way he moves as he heads down the hallway, or I _try_ to. In the loose clothing it's hard to get a read on how he shifts his weight, or how whatever muscle he has flows. That's almost definitely the point of it.

I really don't want to go into this quite so unprepared. I want _some_ kind of information about what Jason's capable of before I go off on a mission with him. In case I need to guard against him, or to give me some kind of hint about how I'll need to fight to work next to him. Which means I need to turn right back around and talk to my clone again. Or, better idea, just call him and talk while I head to my closest stash of weaponry. A hijacked section of one of Oliver's stashes, but that's good enough for now. Once my clone makes me that safe house I won't need Oliver's drop off points anymore.

I wait long enough that I'm pretty sure that Jason's out of the building before following the same path. It's the only way out of the apartment building without using fire escapes or something, and it's not great to do that when I'm trying to look like a normal civilian. So, stairs it is.

I pull my phone out as I move, dialing the Clone and waiting. He picks up after about half a ring, which makes me think he either knew I was going to call, or lunged for the phone to keep it from ringing any more than once. Maybe a mix of the two.

"Alright," I start, without waiting for any kind of a greeting, "so tell me who he is."

" _The Red Hood, like he said. Who 'Jason' is, is his business. He's right, you won't find much about him in a normal search; he stays pretty far underneath casual circles. Powerful enemies. Mostly, he's a vigilante. Partly, he's a mercenary."_

"A mercenary?" I repeat, narrowing my eyes at nothing. "How does that work with being a vigilante? Notice you didn't say _hero_ , by the way."

" _Well he's not exactly a hero. He's picky about the hits he takes; less picky about what information or goods he steals for buyers. He uses lethal force on the people he thinks deserve it, but he's also pretty picky about who those people are unless it's self defense and they pose a real threat. He's a decent guy, despite his methods, and he does good work. Being a mercenary keeps him in more than enough money to keep outfitted."_

"And his skills? How much of that was show?"

My clone sighs. " _None of it. Jason's as good as he says he is, better than me in everything but ranged and probably better than you too. He's had some seriously talented teachers, and some pretty nasty ones, but if you don't start a fight he won't turn on you. He's trustworthy, and he'll watch your back if you do the same for him. You'll get a handle on his basic skills within a few minutes; he doesn't hold back much, and he's definitely not going to slow down any for you. He's not going to leave you behind, but he's also going to flat out say it if he thinks you're holding him back."_

"What kind of teachers?"

" _The League of Assassins, to start with. Look, just be careful alright? Not of him, but just in general."_

I push out of the stairwell door, into the downstairs lobby. "Yeah, sure."

* * *

 **June 23rd, 19:05.**

* * *

I tap my metal fingers against my knee, taking another glance around the empty rooftop. The address Jason gave me was an apartment building, fifteen stories, in a fairly residential neighborhood. There are a few large hotels nearby, but they're closer to the edge of the obviously residential section and are probably better labeled as part of the skyscraper-laden business sector that starts nearly immediately at the edge of the homes. I can see where it transfers from here — about fifteen to seventeen blocks ahead of where I'm standing — but I'm too far away to hear the rush of the city, even though I can see it. It's only a little past seven, and that's practically prime time in anywhere with a real nightlife. The hotels, at the least, are still doing lots of business.

My back is pressed to the wall of the apartment's concrete stairwell that lets out up here. How else would people come up to smoke? And they _definitely_ do. There are at least a couple dozen cigarette butts scattered across the gravel-strewn rooftop, and that's just what I can see without actually looking for them.

It's officially half an hour past when Jason said to meet him here, and that irritates me a bit. The Clone said he was trustworthy, and to me that means he probably isn't enough of a dick to give me a random address. Or give me the right one and then just never show up. Even if this doesn't feel like the right building.

It's not a terrible apartment building, but it's not a great one either. Most crime bosses — and that _is_ what Jason said he was after — live in nicer places than this, and Jason said _work_ anyway. Getting sent to a random residential building makes me feel like this is some kind of trick. But he also said the target was more well guarded than he expected, and I doubt he'd send me to the rooftop of the actual building that we were raiding. That seems like a pretty rookie mistake for someone my clone respects as much as he does. In fact, meeting on a rooftop at all probably means he wouldn't give me a place to meet that's anywhere near the actual target.

Can't risk getting spotted, and I doubt that he would have bothered asking for backup if the roof wasn't even guarded.

"Hey."

I whirl, grabbing the gun from the sheath on my left thigh and spinning to point it up at the location of the voice. I catch a flash of movement, shadowed red and brown, before the gun's knocked out of my hand by a kick. There's a moment of pause, just long enough to recognize the flash of movement as a person, crouched at the top of the stairwell, before they're leaping over me, hands bracing on my shoulders for balance in the flip. I turn to follow, whirling with my metal arm outstretched.

The person ducks under with ease, and then transfers weight forward and slams into my low chest. I hit the wall hard, and hands find my right shoulder and left elbow and press in. The relative lack of strength in the pin, unlike the hard blow of his weight to my chest, keys off my instincts.

Keeps me from retaliating long enough for him to say, "Easy, it's just me, Original."

Jason.

He's got a dark red helmet on — that has to be what's causing the voice modulation and what stopped me from immediately recognizing him — and a light brown leather jacket. There's dark armor beneath it, black, that ends halfway up his throat. Black gloves with visible metal sewn in over the knuckles, black combat boots, a sheathed knife on his right thigh and a holstered gun on his left. Undoubtedly more weaponry beneath his jacket, and stored in the dark grey cargo pants.

I raise my metal arm, shoving him away by the center of his chest. It's not hard, and he doesn't fight it. "You're late," I point out, with irritation.

"I said 'about' two hours," he counters, and his right hand flicks out to point about ten feet to my left. "Gun's over there." I confirm that the dark shape on the rooftop is my gun with a glance, then head over to pick it up. "I was scouting ahead. No offense, but I don't know much about your ability to do stealth jobs. The goal here is _not_ to get the police called, or the League."

"You got enemies on the League?" I ask, as I holster my gun and turn back to him.

"Not exactly. Just people I'd rather not run into; they don't tend to appreciate my kind of methods and I'm not looking for a fight I might not win or escape from." He waits for me to walk up to him — probably studying my choice of weaponry; I didn't bring my bigger pieces this time — before turning and tilting his head sideways. "See the biggest hotel, and the skyscraper next to it? The thirty-three story one to the right?"

"I see it."

"Target's in there, on the thirty-second floor. Only elevator in requires a passcode and retinal identification; stair exit only opens from the inside of the floor. Windows are too tough for anything that wouldn't get way too much attention. Roof's guarded, just three guards but they keep the angles of approach covered. Stairs and elevator are also guarded, and if we're spotted, and they get off a warning, I'm almost positive he'll escape too quickly for us to follow him without attracting major attention." I _think_ he's looking at me, reading my reaction to the security measures, but with that helmet on I can't tell for sure.

"Three options," he continues. "Try for a rooftop entrance; see if we can take down all three guards before they get off a warning and go in through the stairwell. Blow the door to the floor, fight through the guards inside — my intel says twenty, give or take — and take him down. Two; go in through the floor level, hope we get lucky and can grab someone with a passcode and an accepted retinal scan to get us in. Three; shoot out a window in a lower level, blow a hole in the ceiling, and get into the floor that way. That takes the gamble that the floor hasn't been modified to withstand explosions, which it probably has. Might work anyway."

There's a moment of silence, and I raise an eyebrow. "Are you waiting for my opinion?" I ask, dryly. "Thought I was just here to try and keep up."

He gives a sharp laugh. "Fair enough. You good enough with a sniper rifle to take out at least two of the roof guards, before they've got time to take cover, if we're on a neighboring, higher building?"

"Yeah, absolutely. Depending on the grouping, and how much they're moving, I might be able to do all three. Have you _got_ a sniper rifle?" I've got one, but it's big and I opted not to bring the larger things that might hamper my movement. The way my clone talked about Jason, I got the impression that he valued speed more than brute force. Rocket launchers and sniper rifles make movement a little harder, and they weigh me down.

"Course I do," he answers with a snort. "Already set up. Just needed to know if you thought you could do it. Route's designed to keep us out of their eyesight, all you've gotta do is follow my steps, Arsenal."

"I thought you were picky about who you killed; I didn't think that random guards qualified." I've killed before — aliens, to be fair, and they were definitely trying to kill me too — but killing without a good reason, from the dark like this? He might be an assassin, but I'm not. I don't totally like the idea of killing two guards before they even know what's happening.

He pauses, and I swear I read appraisal off of him, even though all he actually does is tilt his head a bit. "Yeah, that's right. This crime boss' guards are all veterans of the business; years and years of experience and about the nastiest you can get without hiring private security. If they're his personal guards, which is all we'll run into, then it's guaranteed they've murdered dozens of people. Probably tortured too, along with whatever else their business deals needed done. These aren't just normal thugs or hired goons. They're killers."

He shrugs, head turning as he — I think — glances towards the building. "Good job for them. Hell of a pay raise, and all they've gotta do is defend one person. I do my research, Arsenal. Whatever else I lie about, I don't joke around about killing. You can call Red Arrow if you want to confirm my morals, but I guarantee every guard in there deserves it."

I consider him for a second, then dip my head in a nod. "Lead the way, Red Hood. Wouldn't want to risk waking his kid up." I smirk. "Not that your _guarantee_ means much, not from a guy who thinks a helmet is a _hood_."

He snorts again, stepping back and settling into an easy lope of movement. I match it, moving just a little faster to keep up with his longer stride. "You looked me up, didn't you? I'm just using the name, I didn't make it up."

He pulls a grapnel from within his jacket, and I prep the one built into my metal arm. I have to raise my voice a bit to compensate for the rush of air as he leaps across the gap between our building and the next, and ducks into a roll. "Yeah, it was a Gotham villain, wasn't it? Interesting choice."

"A bunch of them. Kind of a catch all for anyone who just wanted a bit of extra fame and a mask to hide behind. Throw on a red ski mask and you could call yourself the Red Hood, lots of thugs did." He glances back briefly. "Let's call the choice a message I haven't gotten around to delivering yet."

I follow him around the side of a building on a swing of cable, down onto the roof of a house and then down into a gap between the fences of two houses. "Clone said you had powerful enemies. Trained with the League of Assassins?"

He vaults over one of the fences, I follow, and he answers as we cross the backyard of the home. "The two aren't connected, luckily. Yeah, I did some training with Ra's al Ghul and his lackeys. That's where I met Cheshire." Another fence, and then sideways across an unlit street and up to the top of another apartment building. He moves like he's been doing this his whole life, like the art of rooftop runs is second nature to him and totally automatic. "And yeah, I've got enemies. Happens when you make a living off of killing crime bosses. The people I actually worry about don't have me on their radar yet; I try and keep it that way."

He picks up the pace a little, obviously testing how well I keep up, and I drop the questions to focus on his patterns. Good flexibility, _really_ good control over his own body, and some decent power to back it up. Now that he's out of the baggy sweatshirt, I can tell he's got a fair amount of muscle. Hard to tell specifics, with the armor and jacket in the way, but the width of his shoulders and his chest implies enough. He must have been doing this a while if he's this good, and this good means he started pretty young. That, or he's got a _hell_ of a lot of natural talent. Maybe both, honestly.

He doesn't really feel like an assassin, and it's hard to imagine that any of the League of Assassin's minions would ever turn and become an anti-hero vigilante. That makes me think he apprenticed under someone with a pretty impressive name. Why else would Ra's al Ghul ever agree to train someone that wasn't going to work for him? Had to be a favor, or some kind of a deal.

So who did he used to work for? Or does he still work for someone, and this just happens to be in line with whatever they want?

I doubt I'm going to get those answers out of him.

Finally we get to the top of the skyscraper across from the target's building, and Jason motions for me to keep low. I follow his crouched movement up to the ledge, and the assembled rifle carefully tucked beneath it. I glance down at the rooftop, as he snags another device that I recognize as a more heavy duty grapnel and checks it.

"So are you from Gotham then?" I ask, only slightly out of breath from the run. I check the rifle as he checks his device.

"Oh, getting personal are we? Point out the one you're least likely to be able to take down." I scan the three of them through the rifle's scope, and then flick my hand towards the left-most one. He's partially behind an electrical box from this angle. "Great, I'll deal with him. Follow the line across when you've taken your shots. The cameras are disabled for now, but there's no telling how long it'll take for them to notice the loop. We'll get warned if the system is rebooting; still best to move fast."

"You usually snap orders off like that?" I set up the first shot as he gives a snort.

"Thought you were just here to try and keep up? Might not be much of a team player, but I know how to lead one if I need to. Ready?" He turns as he speaks, firing one end of the cable into our roof and then flipping the device in his hands.

I finish setting up my shot, breathing out as I still my hands and ease myself down to the almost zen like space my best shots come from. "Ready," I breathe, my crosshairs hovering over the skull of the guard to the right.

"Three. Two. One." I can hear him shift to standing, and then the distinctive sound as he fires the other side of the cable. "Go!"

I take my first shot, and immediately swing to the second target, breathe out for a fraction of a second, and squeeze the trigger a second time. When I turn to the third target he's staggering backwards, clutching at a wound in his throat that looks like it was made from something very sharp. I take half a second to make sure my two shots hit — they did — before setting the rifle down behind the ledge and rolling to get up and leap off the building after Jason. I hook my metal arm over the cable, letting it grate and spark as my weight pulls me down along the line.

He's moving towards his guard as I roll to dispel the momentum of the fall, and I miss the moment he finishes things. When I straighten back up he's doing the same, sheathing his knife again. The guard is still, and clearly dead.

Jason heads for the stairwell exit, flashing an identification card on a lanyard at me, clearly pulled from the guard he killed. I follow him, edging up next to him as he swipes the card across an access panel. It blinks green, and he turns the handle to it and pulls it open. Only enough to slip in, but he's thicker than me so the gap is an easy one for me to take advantage of. I make sure the door closes quietly, as he leans over the edge of the stairwell to look down.

"No one guarding the door below us," he says quietly, drawing back. "I'll set the explosive. Stay on the twenty-third stairwell, but be ready to move." He doesn't wait for my acknowledgement, hooking one hand on the railing and vaulting over, dropping down.

I take the easier way, moving down the stairs. He's heading back up when I still in front of the door for the twenty-third floor, and he motions me down a bit further. I meet him halfway, and draw my gun into my left hand. My right arm doesn't really need a weapon to be deadly; I just have to not hold back as much. He's holding a detonator in his left hand, and he draws the sheathed knife into his right. He glances at me for just a moment, then hits the button.

He's moving before it even fully goes off. I wince at the bang, but instinct has me following him. It's barely two seconds before he's vaulting over the ruin of the door and rushing into the floor. I stay at his back, catching targets with a first sweep and raising my gun in the next moment. I start at the opposite direction that he runs, squeezing off shots as I move to cover. The guards haven't recovered yet, and I take full advantage of that. When I glance to the side, to make sure Jason doesn't need help, my gaze gets caught for a moment.

His combat style is extremely _close_ , smooth, and efficient. I can recognize some of it from what I've seen Cheshire do — she was one of the few people that would spar with me without treating me like glass or a live bomb after I came back — so that's gotta be the League of Assassins stuff. But the rest… There's something about the parts that fill the in between, about the _flair_ of it, that feels really familiar. I don't have the time to place it before I have to turn back to my own targets, but I file it away in my head to think about when I've got spare attention.

It's not long before we've cleared the initial rush, and Jason is heading deeper into the floor, clearly assuming that I'm going to follow. He's not wrong. He moves in an easy slide of motion, fast paced but nearly silent on bent knees. I try and stay about as quiet as him, but he's clearly got some kind of severe stealth training that I don't. He sweeps rooms efficiently, and I glance in behind him just to make sure he hasn't missed anyone. We go through another, much smaller group of guards without much trouble, and then it clicks in my head.

As he runs and launches off a wall, into a roll that ends in the last guard getting gutted and then ended with a second blow up through the throat, I place where I've seen that particular _flair_ he has in his movements.

"Bats," I blurt, before thinking about it.

His head whips around, expression hidden by that helmet. "You just feel like saying random words or what?" he asks, sharply.

He's moving before I get my answer together, continuing the sweep of the floor. I follow, stepping around the guards. "You move like one of the _Bats_ ," I press.

He snorts. "Yeah, no I don't. They don't kill, remember?" We're reaching the end of the floor.

"Changing a move's end to be lethal doesn't change the move," I point out. "You move like Nightwing does, I can _see_ it. It's a pretty distinctive kind of efficient flair, Red. Batman doesn't move like that, but Nightwing, Robin, and Batgirl do. So do _you_."

"Fine, Original, sure I do." He checks the second to last room, then moves towards the very last one — firmly closed — with new purpose and a shake of his head. "So now that you've invented this connection, what's your point? I learned from a lot of people, most of them the best in their fields. Maybe I learned from some of the same people the Bats did."

He tests the knob — locked — and then steps back to kick it down. It goes easier than I thought it would. What has to be the target is partially behind a large desk, gun up and pointed at the two of us.

"I can pay you!" he shouts, as Jason steps inside and I lean to one side of the doorway to watch. "Anything you want! Double whatever they're paying you. _Triple!_ "

Jason's knife flicks out, propelled by a practiced twist of his wrist. The crime boss cries out, clutching at his arm where the blade's stuck. His fingers spasm around the gun but fall away before they can pull the trigger. "Sorry," Jason says flatly, raising his own gun. "Money's just a nice bonus." The bang of the gunshot cuts off the fear, the boss collapsing off the desk and to the floor. Jason heads forward and around it, yanking his knife out of the body and wiping it off, briefly, before tucking it away.

I watch him store his weapons, and follow the lead to holster my own gun. "Yeah, maybe you did," I concede, picking our conversation back up. "But you said that you had people in the League that you didn't want to run into, not that you didn't want to run into the _League_. You're avoiding someone specific." Jason heads back around the desk, towards me. "Plus," I continue, "you picked up a name from Gotham, a name that was associated with _criminals_ , to be a mercenary and vigilante. Said it was a message you hadn't delivered yet. Sounds like you're avoiding Batman to me, and if you're a sidekick of his that went rogue it would explain why you could get training from the League of Assassins without Ra's al Ghul killing you for leaving."

He pauses, at the other side of the doorway and clearly watching me. He doesn't _look_ like he's going to pull a weapon on me, so I don't bother reaching for any of mine. I've got my arm anyway, I don't need anything more obvious.

"Should I be calling you Robin?"

He makes a small noise that sounds impressed, then tilts his head through the door. "You come back with me to one of my safe houses, I'll give you answers. Sound like a deal?"

"You trust me in your safe house?" I ask, as he slips through the gap I've left. I push off the doorframe and follow, a step behind and to his left.

"Haven't decided yet," he answers easily, "but if I decide I don't, all I have to do is move. I don't stay anywhere too long anyway, and it's just one of my bolt holes. Deal, Arsenal?"

I don't even have to really think about my answer.

"Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

And, chapter two! Your first real Jason and Roy interaction. Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: Underage drinking, and mentions of murder/resurrection/temporary brain damage.

* * *

 **June 23rd, 21:32**

* * *

A pretty big apartment in a pretty nice part of town was not really what I was expecting.

My only real frames of reference have been my clone's place, which is awful; Oliver's scattered ammo dumps, which aren't meant to be anything but pitstops; and the warehouse turned base that the team's been using since the mountain got blown up, which I stepped foot in once and never, ever went back. I guess I was just expecting Jason's safehouse to be kind of a shithole, like all the others I've seen. But it's not.

It's fairly empty, and looks more like an untouched, not yet rented apartment, but it is pretty nice. Good quality furniture, faint floral patterns on the fabric of the couch and matching set of two armchairs, and carefully artful arches that lead into different rooms. Colors aren't bad at least. The wooden floor is a lighter brown, with those knots and 'imperfections' to prove they're real, and the furniture is all carefully complimentary. The wood in slightly darker tones than the floor, and the fabric a light white and blue pattern.

Jason took me in through the window, scaling the outside of the building and disabling a trap or two before he ducked through and beckoned me to follow. He's really not careful about the place either. His helmet — it comes off with a catch at the back of his neck, and a hiss from the release of the seal — gets discarded on the couch, and his jacket gets thrown over the back.

"Pull the curtains," he throws over his shoulder, "then make yourself comfortable."

I do, then follow the suggestion and head a little deeper into the apartment. Jason makes a beeline for one of the arches — I can see a slice of a kitchen through it — and I take some of the heavier pieces of gear off me to drop on the armchair.

"Not what I was expecting," I call out.

From beyond the arch I hear a snort, and then he steps back into view and looks at me. He looks pretty unimpressed, but maybe a little amused. "Take some advice from someone who's been dodging authority figures for a while; always have at least one safe house that's a place no one would ever think to look for you. Mid-to-high price range apartments? That's my place."

He vanishes again, and instead of sitting down I head over to lean at one side of the arch. He's crouched in front of the refrigerator, weight swung to one side and his hand still hooked in the handle from pulling it open. The fridge is pretty empty; mostly just bottled water and some untouched six-packs of beer in glass bottles.

"Doesn't look like you live here," I comment.

He doesn't look back, but one of his shoulders lifts in a shrug. "I don't," he answers simply. "Might have my issues, but I'm not dumb or crazy enough to take you to my primary safe house. I know your clone, and I more or less trust him, but you're not the same person." His head tilts a little bit to one side, like he's considering something in the fridge. "You want anything?"

"Throw me a beer," I answer absently, but most of my attention is still caught up on what came before the question. _Not the same person_.

He snags two beers from within the fridge — something with a black label — and then straightens up and shoves the door closed with his free hand. He leans back against the fridge once he's turned, and then underhand tosses me one of the beers. It's an easy throw, and I snag it out of the air with my left hand.

"Ambidextrous?" he asks, twisting the cap off of his beer. He discards the cap on the counter.

"Mostly. Glass tends to shatter when I try to catch it with my right hand." I swap the beer to my right hand, so I can use the left to twist my own cap off. "Fine-tuning the strength takes some work; delicate things with not much time but reaction doesn't work out well." I take a swig of the beer — it's not bad, actually — and watch Jason as he takes a drink of his.

With the jacket out of the way, it's easy to see that the armor he's got on beneath is very good quality, and well maintained. It fits pretty close to his skin, covers everything but a slice of his wrists before the gloves start, but I can still get a decent grasp of what his physique is like. _Good_ , is the basic impression.

"So, you promised me answers."

His mouth curls at one side, eyes narrowing as he watches me. "Ask them," he tells me plainly, and raises the beer as if in a salute before he takes another drink.

I consider him, and how at _ease_ he is. "Why tell me anything at all? All I've got are guesses, at the end of the day."

Jason's gaze flicks to the floor for a moment, and then he sets the beer aside on the counter and meets my look. "Because I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about my existence. Figured some honesty and information was a good start to making that happen."

Well, that gives me one _hell_ of a bargaining chip, doesn't it?

" _Don't_." Jason's tone is a warning, and his eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "You can't threaten me, Original. If you tell anyone, then I'll deal. Me staying anonymous isn't worth enough for me to let you blackmail me with it."

"Fair enough. Guess that means if I ask anything too revealing—?"

"I won't answer, yeah." He eases out again, then reaches for the beer. "So, ask away."

Alright, so I'm not going to get answers on anything identity related, and if I press too hard for what he doesn't want to give I'll probably end up pretty bloody. I'll also probably never see him again, if he doesn't want me to. I'm not going to kid myself. If he really is a previous Robin, then he'll have the same stealth skills as the rest of them, and there's no way I'll find him unless he wants me to. The Bats are pretty damn scary, as heroes go.

"Okay…" I debate for a few moments, filling them with a sip of the beer. Let's just start small and simple. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen." He takes another drink, then gives me a crooked grin. "Might as well not bother testing the water, Original. Just ask the big questions and fill in details later, we both know you're not _really_ interested in how old I am."

I snort, give a smaller grin that's equally as crooked, and lift my free hand in a shrug. "Alright, got me there. So, you were a Robin?"

He nods, tilts his head a bit to one side as he does it. "You ever go down into the memorial cave beneath the base in the mountain? Before it got blown to hell?"

"Once or twice," I answer, trying to remember the specifics of what was down there. I think they moved the memorials up to the Watchtower, but I didn't know anyone who was down there by anything more than reputation so I didn't pay much attention.

"That's me." Jason's gaze flicks down to his beer. "Never been down there myself, but I've seen footage. Not the greatest hair day for me."

There _was_ a Robin down there. One that came between the original, Nightwing, and the current one. But that one, "He died. You're still standing."

"Everyone thought _you_ were dead," he points out, with a twist of his mouth and a snort. "And 'died' is such an awful way to say it anyway. Saying someone 'died' is for old people who die in their sleep, or people who die to a disease or an accident. I didn't _die_ , I was _killed_. There's a difference."

"Then how the hell are you alive again?" He doesn't _look_ like he's magically affected. He doesn't look like anything but a healthy, above-average, human. If he really is the Robin down in that memorial, if he was really killed — I think my memory is right — by the Joker, how the hell is he standing in this kitchen with a beer in his hand?

He shrugs, looks up to meet my gaze. "No clue, and no one I asked has been able to figure it out either. I just know I was really, _really_ dead, and then I woke back up. Brain damaged, mostly comatose, but that got fixed eventually. Just me now, healthier than ever." He salutes me with the beer. "Here's to random, fucked up twists of the universe, huh?"

Idly, I raise my beer and take a drink with him. Then I swirl what's left in the bottom, watching it for a moment. "So, why not go back to Batman? They'd take you back, wouldn't they? If you shed the identity before you left; maybe even if you didn't."

"Yeah, probably. But the fun fact is that I don't _want_ back in the Batfamily." He drains the last of the beer, sets it on the counter. "I'm not fucked up enough to blame them for what happened to me. My mistake started it, and shit happens sometimes. But the Joker is a mass murdering _psychopath_ , always has been, and they should have put him down. Him killing me _should_ have clicked the facts in their heads that he's never going to stop killing, just for _fun_ , and the only way to stop him is to put him down permanently. They won't, so I will."

For lack of anything to say, I drain my bottle too. That pretty much flat out sucks.

It can't be fun to get killed by someone, wake back up, and get told that the man who killed you is still alive and kicking. That the family you _thought_ you trusted… Yeah, I've been there.

"When I woke back up," I start, slowly, "after they found me… The Clone told me that everyone else stopped searching. Said no one even knew I'd been replaced for a _long_ time, and after that…" I resist the urge to fling the bottle across the room, or crush it in my metal hand. The urge to vent some of the _rage_ burning up my throat. "A few months. That's all I was worth to Green Arrow. Just a few months."

I carefully step forward and set the bottle on the counter near my side of the kitchen, so I don't do exactly what I'm trying not to. Not polite to make a mess in someone's home, and I might not be polite _most_ of the time but Jason hasn't been anything but friendly, if guarded and sarcastic sometimes. I haven't been treated normally by someone in a long time, and I'm not about to fuck up by being a bastard to the first person to treat me like a real human being again. The first person to understand that me and my clone are _not the same person_.

"Sucks when your family doesn't live up to the name, doesn't it?" Jason remarks, his voice soft and quiet, but with a hard edge of anger that I recognize from my own tones. I flick my gaze up to meet his, and there's something knowing and dark in his eyes.

I swallow, pushing away the pain and the anger to give a small nod, and a smaller smirk. "Yeah, it does."

There's a long few moments of silence, and then Jason shoves out a breath and gives a small quirk of his lips that only barely feels forced. "How about I grab the rest of the six-pack, we change into more comfortable clothes, and we sit and watch a movie or something? Your choice as long as it's not terrible. My TV; I reserve the right to veto."

I watch him for a second, trying to see _anything_ that might mean he's just kidding. "We're not friends," I point out, crossing my arms over my chest. I'm really _not_ interested in getting one either. Jason was good to work with, but that's as far as this should go. I don't _want_ friends.

Jason snorts and straightens up off the fridge, turning and opening it. He leans down in and grabs the six-pack, then pushes the fridge closed and heads for me. "I know that, Original." He pauses next to me, gives a crooked smirk, and shrugs. " _I'm_ going to sit down, drink a few beers, and watch a movie to ease out. If you want to join me, you're welcome to. Consider it my treat; it was fun to fight next to someone again." He brushes past me, and after a second I decide to follow him.

It _was_ good to fight next to someone who didn't care how I did my job as long as it worked, and it's so nice to be around someone that doesn't talk with that constant edge of pity. Or stare at my arm. Jason barely _glances_ at it, like he's just accepted it as another part of me with no special significance. No one's done _that_ since I came back.

"You mentioned comfortable clothes?" I aim the question at his back, as he sets the six-pack down in front of one corner of the couch. There's a fairly large TV on the wall in front of it, and a remote discarded on the far seat of the couch, next to where Jason's helmet ended up.

"Yeah. The dresser in the master bedroom," his hand flicks out, pointing in the direction of one of the actual doors instead of an archway, "should be stocked. I keep civilian clothes in all my safe houses, just in case." He straightens up, looks back at me with an obviously assessing sweep of his gaze. "They might not fit you that well, but it should do for just something comfortable."

I glance towards the bedroom, my jaw setting just a little bit. Comfortable clothes _do_ sound good, but the idea of stripping off all my weapons while Jason is still geared itches a bit in the back of my mind. I think I trust him not to shoot me in the back, but I don't really _know_ him beyond knowing that he's seriously dangerous. I'll still have my arm, and all its weaponry, but against a former Bat? One that's been trained by the League of Assassins on top of that?

"Here." I startle a little bit as Jason tosses me the remote, but luckily manage to grab it with my left hand instead of probably crushing it. He gives a small grin. "I'll go first, it'll give you time to pick something out. Controls are pretty self explanatory, I assume you can figure it out."

He snags his helmet and jacket from the couch and heads for the door, and I watch him go. Did he…? Did he read my reluctance and _cater_ to it? I didn't give that much of a reaction, did I? Bats are always pretty observant, when they're not being stealthy bastards, so I guess that makes enough sense. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Maybe I should just be surprised that, for once, someone catered to my paranoid itches without making me feel like a piece of shit for it.

No, 'is that alright?' or 'can you not handle that?' He just saw it, and smoothly gave me a way out without bringing it up. That's… Wow, that's refreshing.

I relax a bit, and turn to the TV. It's just cable that he's got — a good quality one though, lots of channels — and I flip through the list, looking for anything I recognize or that sounds interesting. Getting frozen for eight years kind of murdered any grasp on recent culture that I had, and all the movies and shows in the middle are a big blank space. I don't know how many times Oliver's made some joke that referenced a show I hadn't seen, and then just blinked and stuttered when he realized that I had no idea what he was talking about. I can't _stand_ being around Oliver and his awkward, pitying, forcibly cheerful attempts at bonding. At least my clone knows that what happened to me was fucked up, and doesn't try to force his presence on me.

Finally, I settle on something that's set to come on in about ten minutes, at midnight. I mute it until then, dropping the remote back down onto the couch and turning around. My gaze lingers on the mostly closed door to the master bedroom as I lean on the back of the couch, and then I remember that most of my heavier gear is still on his armchair. Then I move, collecting it off that and shifting to carry it over to one corner of the room. To the right of the window, out of the way of any furniture and out of any direct sight line from an entrance. Just in case.

Jason slips back out as I'm setting the last piece down, and I watch his gaze flick from the couch, to the armchair, and then finally over to me. If me not being where he expected me to be freaks him out at all, he doesn't show it. He's out of all his armor and weaponry, though I don't doubt that he's got at least one small weapon or two hidden away. The black tank-top lets me get my first real look at the muscle in his arms, which is pretty damn impressive. He's a bit pale — seems to be a Bat trait, with the exception of Nightwing's racially slightly darker toned skin — but I don't see any obvious scars on him. The fabric clings to his chest, giving me the impression of some serious musculature underneath it, and the dark grey sweatpants do the same at his thighs.

He's not like Kon-El, who looks like he could crush someone's head in his bare hands — because he could — but more along the lines of Nightwing. Good muscle, little to no body fat, but built to be fast and flexible, not a powerhouse. But, judging from what he looks like now, he's going to end up taller and thicker than Nightwing in the next few years.

"Pick something interesting?" he asks, and I shrug as I head back towards him.

"Looked interesting, or at least mindless. I'm kind of out of date on movies."

"Got it." He says it with a nod, and a small grin. "I'll take a look. I picked out a few things that I thought might fit you and threw them on the bed, they're a little small on me so they probably won't hang too badly. Smallest things I've got."

"You know, we're not _that_ different. You've only got a year on me, and it's not like I haven't got any muscle." I'm probably a little uncomfortably close to him, considering I've got all my weapons and he doesn't, but all he does is turn my direction and meet me.

He gives a bark of laughter, and a more heartfelt grin. "I don't keep much that doesn't fit me right, wasn't a comment on you, Original. Whatever you're comfortable in, have at it. Which, speaking of, I threw a sweatshirt on the bed too." He holds my gaze steadily, without even glancing down, when he says, "Wasn't sure if you didn't like showing your arm outside of being Arsenal, figured I'd tell you upfront before you read it as some kind of fucked up demand to hide it in my house. Wear it, or don't, doesn't matter to me."

I should take it as the gesture it probably is, just a simple piece of respect that doesn't mean anything, but the rest of me presses the point instead. "You have to have _some_ kind of opinion."

"Yeah," Jason admits, tilting his head in something like acquiescence, "I do. Do you want to hear it?"

"I'd appreciate it, yeah."

He studies my gaze for just a second, then dips his head in a nod. "Alright. Well, I think, honestly, that your arm is fucking cool as hell. I like the way it looks, I think it makes _you_ look like a badass, and I think the detail work on it is pretty fucking exquisite, not to mention the grade of weaponry built in. Not surprising, considering Lex Luthor made it." He holds my gaze for a second, as I stare at him. "I _also_ think, that it's your fucking arm, and whatever anyone else's opinions are they can all go to hell. Mine included. I don't push anyone about things like that; everyone deserves the right to make their own choices about their own body. Your limb, your choice."

He nods a second time, like a confirmation, and then steps back so he can loop around the couch. "I'll take a look at what you picked, let you know if it's any good. Change into whatever you want."

I stare after him, watching him sprawl out on the couch. He doesn't look back at me, and after a moment I manage to shake myself loose enough to move. I head for the master bedroom, and shut the door behind me. The light is flicked on, the soft glow catching everything but the darker corners, and there are clothes laid out on the bed, just where Jason said they would be. Just a simple black t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants nearly identical to the ones he was wearing. There's a tank-top next to the t-shirt, a white one, I guess to give me some kind of choice of a top, and a dark red sweatshirt splayed out to one side.

Stripping out of my costume is the first step, and I make a careful pile of the pieces of it on the bed. I'm not leaving it in here, even though I can see the pieces of Jason's costume spread out across the top of the dresser he mentioned before. I strip down to just my briefs, and then try on the sweatpants first. They fit well enough. They're just a little too loose for me to dare trying acrobatics in them, but they're not going to fall off my hips without some serious movement, so it's good enough. I glance between the two tops for a moment before snagging the tank-top and dragging it over my head. It doesn't stretch and cling to my chest like Jason's does, but it doesn't hang on my frame either. Also good enough.

I stare at the sweatshirt for a few moments, then look down at my metal arm. I flex the fingers, watching the panels on it move and shift to accommodate the motion, and then looking at the dim red glow of the three circular lights built into it.

Was Jason serious?

You can't see the scar tissue, not with how Luthor attached the prosthetic to what's left of my real arm, but it still… I know what's under there. How could anyone think that this is anything but a replacement? How could anyone see it and actually see the limb, and not just the symbol of what happened to me? _I_ can barely stand the sight of it most days, let alone stand what little physical feeling I get through it.

I know I would never be able to tell if Jason was lying to me, but what _reason_ would he have to lie? None that I can see, and he did ask first. He didn't just spit out his opinion, he waited until I asked for it, until I _confirmed_ that I really did want to know his thoughts. And even then, he pretty much invalidated his own opinion by telling me that it was my arm, _my_ choice…

I'm probably giving this way too much thought. Sometimes I wish I could shut down the strategizing part of my mind, just for a few minutes.

I push out a slow breath, and then, instead of putting on the sweatshirt, I reach up and tug my mask off. I toss it on the pile with the rest of my gear, then step forward to gather all of it up in my arms. Getting it back across the room is easy, though opening the door is a bit of a challenge, and I leave it open as I head across the living room to the same corner I put the rest of my stuff in. Once I've set it down I finally head for the couch, circling around the closest edge.

Jason is stretched out across most of it, but when I come around the edge he pulls his legs up and into himself, giving me room to sit down. I do, at the other end. I watch his eyes flick, briefly, down to my arm, but he doesn't comment or show any reaction I can read. I relax, at an angle and with my back pressed to the corner of the couch.

"Giant robot and giant monsters." Jason gives me a small smirk, reaching for the remote to unmute the TV. "Pretty decent movie. Attractive leads, badass Russians, alright acting, and pretty visuals. Could do a lot worse, though you're definitely not going to find a real great story here."

I snort, easing a bit more and then leaning down to grab two of the beers from the six-pack at my feet. "Oh yeah, I definitely picked the movie about giant robots and giant monsters fighting because I wanted _story_."

"Fair enough." Jason takes the beer I hand him, turning the volume down some and then setting the remote down next to his hip. I blink a few times when his legs stretch out, settling his calves across my lap, but to my surprise I _don't_ get the urge to immediately shove them off of me. They stay light for a moment, like he's testing, before relaxing and resting more weight on me. "Deal stands, by the way."

"Hm?" I look up, finding his blue-green gaze and yanking my thoughts away from how weirdly nice it is to have his legs across my lap.

"Ask whatever you want. Not like the movie's gonna take that much attention to keep track of, and I can multitask. I'm sure there's more you want to know; from what I understand you're one hell of a strategist." He twists open his beer, settles a little more firmly along the couch. "So the deal stands. Ask away, just know I'll probably ask my own questions."

I glance down at his legs, then up along the line of his torso. "What's your sexuality like?" I find myself asking, before I can think it through.

He gives a startled bark of laughter, then a snort as he grins. "Bisexual," he answers, through that grin, "but I don't sleep with people on the first night. You?"

"Bisexual, far as I know, and I wasn't offering." The defense comes automatically, and Jason shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. "You've got that high of an opinion about yourself, huh?"

"I know what I look like," he corrects, with a teasing edge to his voice. "Didn't say you were offering, Original, just figured I'd mention it. Not saying never either, if you _are_ interested. But no offense, I don't sleep with dangerous people unless I know them pretty well. You said 'far as I know;' virgin, or…? Not judging, to be clear. I don't buy into that whole 'not a man unless you've gotten laid' bullshit."

"Never slept with a guy," I clarify, "but I notice them. Best guess, yeah, bisexual. After that, don't know the specifics. Never met anyone I actually wanted to pursue."

"That's fair. I got _noticed_ , huh?" His grin is light, teasing, and I'd think it was harassment but it's just… It's just not. It's just teasing, it's just making fun, and not a damn syllable of it feels mean-spirited or cruel. So, I respond in kind.

I snort, twisting the cap off of my beer. "You're hard _not_ to notice, Jason." Then my thoughts flick backwards, along the line of our conversation, and seriousness drowns out the light atmosphere in my head. "Thanks, by the way."

"For what?" Jason asks.

I meet his gaze for a moment, then look up at the TV. "For knowing that me and the Clone aren't the same person. People don't understand that."

He shifts, and I look down at his leg as it presses lightly into my stomach. Then up to him, to meet his eyes again.

"People are morons," he tells me flatly. "It's not just the physicality of it. The age, your arm, different scars, all of that. You've got the same genetic code, yeah, but that doesn't really mean jackshit. _Experience_ is what defines a person's personality, and what you went through kind of screwed with the personality you had. Trust me, I know what that's like. _Way_ more importantly, people are morons because the Light fucked with your clone, remember?"

Jason takes a small drink, and then continues, "He's got your memories, sure, but they altered his personality to fit their own ends. That coding in his head changed who he was, and who he _is_. You've got some of the same knee-jerk reactions, some of the same basic personality traits, and at the core your bodies are the same, but past that you're totally different people. Fuck, I don't even _know_ you and I know that. Anyone who doesn't recognize it is an idiotic jackass."

His gaze is steady, not even a hint that he doesn't believe exactly what he's saying. I swallow, and carefully reach up to lay my right hand over Jason's left calf. "Yeah, well it being stupid doesn't stop people."

I can see his gaze flick down to my hand, but he doesn't pull away, or stop me when I lightly squeeze his leg in something like thanks. I can't keep his look, and distract myself with another drink of the beer, and the images flashing across the TV. Of course, Jason doesn't let me get away with it.

"Hey, Roy."

I steel myself for a second before I look back at him. He leans over, setting his beer down on the floor in front of the couch, and then holds his left hand out to me. I stare at it, and then at him, but can only find a simple offer in the gesture. So, carefully, I raise my metal arm off his leg and take his hand instead. I can faintly feel the way his fingers squeeze down, as he turns his head towards the TV and releases me from the intensity of his blue-green eyes.

"I know a thing or two about shitty family," he says softly, "and I know a whole lot more about getting judged by people who don't know what the fuck they're talking about." His fingers squeeze down again. "Don't thank me for being a decent person, Roy, just cuss out anyone who isn't. Or hit them, if you can get away with it."

"I think I like that second option better," I admit, and Jason's mouth curls in a smirk.

"Yeah, physical violence is one hell of a fast track to teaching people they're bastards. Especially people like us; sometimes violence is the only thing that gets through to us." Jason's smirk twitches, falls, and then he shakes his head. "Sometimes."

I study the edge to his eyes, recognizing the anger, the pain, and beneath it all that desperation that _aches_ to be understood. God, _shit_ do I recognize it. I'd like to think that I hate Oliver, I'd _love_ to think that, and maybe at the surface I really do. But more than anger, it _hurt_ that he gave up on me. I thought… I really believed that he had my back, until reality came crashing down and told me he didn't. But Oliver, he was the closest thing I had to a _father_ , to a _mentor_ , and even if I hate him, I know there's a lot more to it than that. I don't want to look too closely at what it is, but I know it's there.

"Jason," his gaze immediately flicks to me, and I swallow and consider my words. Then, after a moment, I give a light squeeze to his fingers — I have to be _so_ careful about the strength in that arm — and raise our linked hands a few inches. "What is this?" I ask, tilting my head in the direction of our hands, but holding his gaze so I don't miss even a second of reaction.

He looks at our hands, considers them, and then gives a small shrug. "I don't know," he answers, and keeps his gaze trained on our hands as he continues. "I know that it hasn't been this easy to be around someone for a long time. To talk."

"That's—" I shake my head, and then give a huff of breath and a nod. "Yeah, for me either."

There's a moment of silence, and then Jason gives a grimly amused noise. "Maybe it doesn't have to _be_ anything, hm? What if we just leave it at 'easy,' and avoid all the stupid bullshit about having to label things?"

I can feel my mouth twist in a small grin, and something in my chest relaxes. "Leaving room for labels if we ever want them?" I ask, with a slightly mocking edge to my tone, and Jason gives a snort of laughter.

"Well yeah, naturally. You think I'm permanently boxing myself into something like that? No way."

I echo his snort, and then tell him, "Get your legs off me, Red."

He rolls his eyes, but shifts his legs to fall down onto the carpet. I promptly twist more comfortably into my corner of the couch, and raise my legs so I can settle them comfortably across _his_ lap. "Oh?" he says, with a laugh. "It's like _that_ , is it?"

"You bet your ass it is," I say, with a crooked grin and a raised eyebrow.

Somehow, he manages to get his left leg underneath mine as he repositions, my feet at his stomach as his legs part to either side of mine. The slightly longer distance forces our hands to part, but his fingers linger on mine for a moment before he lets go. Then his hand drops to splay out along my calf, as he reaches down for his beer. I let my hand rest against his ankle, and raise my beer to take a sip of it.

Then, I identify what it is in my chest that feels so light. So _free_.

"It's nice to not be held to someone's expectations," I comment, giving voice to the _ease_.

Jason's fingers squeeze down on my calf, almost like a massage. "With you there." His fingers tap against me, and I refocus on his eyes. He gives a crooked grin, a small shrug, and then looks up at the TV. "You're welcome to the spare bedroom, if you want it. If you haven't got a place to crash that's not attached to someone else's name. Welcome to the safe house, actually. I pretty much don't use this one, so as long as you're alright with me dropping in once in a while when I'm fucking exhausted and in the neighborhood, you can have it."

"Are you serious?" I ask incredulously, and he gives another rolling shrug and nods.

"Yeah, of course. I've got others, and most of the time I'm not even in this country. Most of my work is overseas." He meets my eyes again. "It's a good one. Pretty nice, soundproofed and trapped, and right now the total count of people who know about it are the two of us. Not even your clone knows, and neither does anyone I know from the League of Assassins. You interested?"

I snort. "Fuck. If you're serious, hell yes. Not having to rely on my clone making me one sounds like a much better situation."

Jason gives a small snort, taking another drink of his beer. "He'd make you a pretty good one. Mine are better."

"That factually true, or just pride?" I immediately counter, and he makes a noise that sounds exaggeratingly offended and shocked.

"Excuse me, I was a _Robin_ , and I have training from the _League of Assassins_ , plus about a dozen different teachers from around the world! Not getting found is what I'm best at, thank you very much." He grins, nudges my hip with his toes, and tilts his head to the side as he watches me. "Factually true; mine are harder to trace. Plus, it helps that I've got no connection to you, so if someone tries to hunt you down there's no thread between the two of us they can follow. That's a better idea than getting it from the person that's the first one people would assume you'd go to for help."

"Fair point," I admit. "Only person that might track me down is—" My throat tightens, and Jason finishes the sentence for me.

"Green Arrow?" I nod, and he squeezes my calf again. "So long as you don't let him track you somehow, he'll never find you here. I can run you through the basics of avoiding trackers, if you want."

"Don't you have a job?" My question is a little sharp, but he doesn't seem to take offense.

"Once I get paid for tonight, there's a quiet stretch. Nothing planned, and I don't usually take jobs that are short notice assassinations or thefts. Too much potential for things to go wrong if I don't have the time to plan it and study the target." He nudges my hip again, catches my eye and then gives a small gesture to himself with his beer. "Besides, do you really think I actually _need_ to work? I'm really not hurting for money."

"Part of why you're willing to more or less give me your safe house?"

He laughs, takes a drink of the beer. "Doesn't hurt. Now come on, we've got fights between giant monsters and giant robots to watch. At least until you come up with your next question."

Yeah, that _does_ sound just… Amazing. Since I was unfrozen, has _anyone_ just sat with me and not expected something? I'm pretty damn sure the answer is no.

I settle into my corner of the couch, managing to relax even though his hand is still resting on my calf, and carefully squeeze his ankle as I turn my attention to the TV. "I'll think about it, Red."


	3. Chapter 3

And, chapter 3! So, getting to know you... Getting to know all about you... Anyway, this is the chapter that matches up with the lovely fanart done for me by BiueBeetie, and the link to that is on my profile, near the bottom. Hope you enjoy!

Only **warning** for this chapter is more underage drinking.

* * *

 **July 4th, 21:12**

* * *

Drinks and movies with Jason becomes a pretty regular thing.

Part of it is definitely that I'm staying in his house, to be fair. There's pretty much nothing in there that actually makes it obvious it's his, with the exception of a few stored cases that he tucks in the corner of the guest bedroom. The main one he gives to me. Apart from those four cases — later, I find out that they just contain a supply of various small tools, and ammo clips for the main style of handgun Jason carries three of — it could be an unrented apartment, or absolutely anyone's home.

I don't see Jason every day, but he does seem to be sticking around. At least for now. He helps me move my stuff over, disabling Oliver's security and making sure neither of us is caught on camera as we collect my supplies — for civilian and Arsenal alike — and move them to his home. No, _my_ home. He also, as he mentioned, teaches me the basics of ditching a tail, avoiding any kind of tracking, and safe communication. It's not as hard as I thought it might be, and it's clear that Jason is seriously skilled at it.

In fact, it becomes clear that Jason is damn skilled at just about _everything_ he sets his mind to.

I find out that he speaks Russian, German, Arabic, and Japanese, as well as English, and that he's capable of mimicking just about any kind of accent while speaking English, with varying degrees of success. I also find out that his best combat style is with his gun in one hand and his knife in the other, though he's still seriously impressive with just the knife, just the gun, or plain hand-to-hand. Not as good a shot as me, but every other directly combat related skill he surpasses me on, even if it's just by a little bit.

We do some sparring, in our downtime. He's a bit faster than me, stronger than me except for my metal arm, and he's significantly more skilled than I am in hand-to-hand combat. He gets this focused sharpness to his gaze, when we fight, that doesn't go away until he has me on the floor or against the wall, my arm or leg twisted into a submission hold or his hand tapping my throat or chest in recognition of what would be a killing strike if he followed through on it. It's humbling, frustrating, but also _really_ instructive. He never fails to walk me through the mechanics of a move if I ask, and sometimes he comments on flaws in my style. Sometimes I even manage to fix them.

I do manage to beat him in most of the chess games that we play — I have no fucking clue which one of us brought the idea up, but it seemed to stick — especially when we do it long distance. I have the better strategic mind, whereas Jason is much better at the instant, instinctive, 'how do I take this person down fast and efficiently?' kind of thinking that makes him so amazing at hand-to-hand.

I learn a hell of a lot from him, and just by being around him. My clone doesn't seem really happy about it, but I don't give him the chance or the time to argue with me about it. I like Jason, so damn what anyone else thinks of me being around him.

It hasn't been this easy to be around someone for a long time, even before I was captured. He meets my sarcasm and hostility without taking offense, and comes back with obviously teasing sarcasm and plain reassurances instead. He doesn't pity me, I never catch him staring at my arm, and he doesn't walk around me like the ground is littered with eggshells. He treats me like anyone else, and that's worth every moment of knowing my clone is going to be furious, and so is Oliver.

Damn Oliver anyway, and I don't wish my clone any bad fortune but I don't want him in my hair either. I've got it handled.

Every moment between us is easy, simple, and even in the moments that we _do_ get defensive with each other it never escalates to real violence. We both know the warning signs too well to keep pushing, or to keep being a _dick_ about things. It's a simple coexistence, and it seems to work for both of us.

Jason always lets me know when he's going to come in too, which I appreciate. If he didn't, I might wake up ready to shoot him, or already in the process of taking a shot. I don't doubt that he'd dodge, but that's not the point. I don't want to risk shooting him, and as long as I know when he's stopping by, I know that I shouldn't wake up shooting. I've primed weapons a few times when he woke me from sleep, but I've never actually gotten all the way to 'ready to shoot' before. Never been willing to, either. I really don't want to shoot Jason.

Which, I guess, is how we ended up on a rooftop, legs outstretched and backs pressed against the side of a skylight as we pass a bottle of semi-decent rum back and forth. It's not enough to get either of us drunk, not with how little we're actually drinking from it, but it's enough to have me just a little tipsy.

That's good.

I'm not sure that I could have handled seeing the last Reach ship — supposedly — fly off into space, color exploding all around it from the fireworks celebrating its departure, if I wasn't at least a little tipsy.

Seeing that ship still tightens up my gut a bit, and makes me remember waking up half frozen and the flashes of the pod that I remember. Makes me remember the _nightmare_ of waking up to my own face, just aged quite a few years, and the horrifying information that I'd been locked away and frozen for eight years. The horror that was knowing that the bottom half of my right arm, my _dominant_ arm, was gone. That I'd never draw a bow with the same skill, never shoot an arrow or hear that _thunk_ as it hit its target. Losing half of my arm, losing my _hand_ , was a little slice of hell all on its own. The rest of it be damned.

Even if it had just been two days, or two damn _hours_ , the horror of losing my arm would have been the same.

But, at the same time, watching the Reach ship leave is… good. It might bring up all of these god awful memories and feelings, and all that buried pain, but it also feels so _good_. The Reach is _gone_ , they can't ever put me in one of their damn pods again. Not fucking _ever_. That's a pretty damn reassuring fact.

Jason's shoulder is pressed against my right one, our thighs only about an inch apart. Both of us are just in civilian clothing, and if not for my metal arm — it's hot, and I'm less self-conscious of my arm around Jason than anyone else, so I decided to abandon my usual sweatshirt and just wear a white t-shirt — we could pass for normal people. Well, that and the fact that Jason _always_ looks like he's halfway hunting something. There's an intensity to his eyes that almost never goes away, and a way that his gaze flicks from one thing to another, never sliding or pausing but just focused on one thing at a time, that feels like a stalking hunter looking for the next piece of prey. I suppose he could probably shut that off if he wanted to — I'm sure he _can_ pass as a civilian if he needs to — but I've never seen him do it.

I got used to it, after a few nights.

The bottle of rum is sweating in my real hand, still cool from the icebox that Jason brought with him to keep it from getting hot, and even though Jason's touch is uncomfortably warm, I don't want to move away.

I might be pretty attracted to my new friend, and sometimes roommate. Maybe a little dangerously so, if I had any intention of acting on it, but I really, really don't. Not yet, anyway. I don't know enough about him, or what kind of shit he's going to get into with the Bats, and if there's one place I really _don't_ want to be, it's in the middle of a fight between Batman and Jason. If he finds out that I know Jason, or worse that I've been sleeping with him, I'm going to get hunted down by the Bats when their inevitable confrontation happens.

Also, I can fake confidence all I want, but I've never been with another guy before. I have no idea what to do, and I'm not quite desperate enough to look it up and find out. That's the other part of what's holding me back.

"There it goes," Jason comments quietly, and I turn my head to look at him. He's watching the sky, head tilted back against the rise of the skylight. "Must feel good to see them gone, hm?" His head tilts to the side, meeting my gaze.

"In some ways," I answer, balancing the bottle on my thigh and spinning it in small circles. I look down, watching it instead of holding Jason's blue-green eyes. "But seeing them again at all…"

"Reminds you what happened?" he finishes, and I nod. He gives one of those sharp barks of laughter, and reaches over to pull the bottle from my hand and raise it to his mouth. "Yeah," comes the answer, once he's swallowed a mouthful, "been there. Even seeing Joker in the news…" There's a moment of silence, and I can hear Jason's fingers tap against the glass of the bottle. "Doesn't matter that it's just a picture, or a piece of a video, it's like he's looking right at me."

I glance up at him, then focus my gaze when I find out he's safely watching the fireworks. "That why you haven't gone after him yet?" I can feel him tense for a second, hear his breath catch in his throat, but the most obvious sign that I just hurt him is the way he winces, head turning away. "My bad," I quickly add. "Nevermind, it's—"

"It's alright," Jason says, cutting me off. "Yeah, that's some of why. God knows what would happen if I met him face to face. I'm not really the kind to break down and hide in a corner, but I sure as hell wouldn't react very well. It'd probably be violent, but not real smart. I can't afford that."

"Not with Batman in the picture?"

Another bark of laughter, and he leans into me for a moment. "Yeah, there's the _other_ reason I'm not going after the Joker yet. I'm not ready to face _him_ yet either." Another tap of his fingers against the bottle. "Not sure I'll ever be ready, if I'm being honest."

I take the bottle from him and have another sip, echoing the press of his shoulder by leaning slightly into him. "Hell of a person to go up against."

" _Fuck_. Joker, or Batman?" Jason's voice has dry humor in it, bitterness, and a touch of something too angry to be fear.

"Either?" I answer. "Or both. I've never met the Joker."

"So we're blind to each other's enemies, huh?" He looks over at me, shrugs, and eases a little bit. "Never really ran into the Reach, at all. I followed what they were doing, just in case, but the ending fight happened too fast for me to get in on it. If I'd showed up when everyone gathered I'd have just slowed things down trying to explain what I was doing there."

"So you decided not to show up instead?" I can't help that there's just a _little_ spark of anger in me. I might not have known the team very well, but Kid Flash _died_ in that battle. Maybe I barely knew him — by the time I was back, he'd quit being a hero — but that doesn't mean that I didn't feel some of the shockwave of his death. One more helping hand might have made the difference.

"It wasn't that simple," he snaps, as his eyes narrow and pin me to the spot. "I was tapped into the communications, and I was _ready_ to step in if I needed to. No one could have gotten to that last device but the Flashes, and no one knew it was there until too late." He looks away, back up at the sky, and then shakes his head. "I knew Kid Flash, alright? We were on the same team for a while, we worked together. Goofball, but a good guy and serious when he needed to be. If I could have done anything I would have."

I swallow, and then give a matching shake of my head and look back down at the rum. "Sorry," I manage to say. "Bad implications, and I didn't mean to make them."

"I know." Jason gives a small sound of amusement, only a little bitter, and his shoulder presses a little harder into mine. "I'm pretty sure you don't think I'm enough of a bastard to let an ally die just to keep myself anonymous."

"Just pretty sure?" I counter, lifting my head to meet Jason's gaze. His head is tilted down a bit, but towards me, and there's a guarded look to his eyes that I don't recognize and don't like. "Be sure, Jason. I know you'd never do something like that, I just made a stupid accusation before I thought about it, and implied some things I would _never_ think you were capable of." I raise my right hand off my thigh, reaching over and finding his left hand where it was mirroring mine. His gaze flicks down for a moment as I carefully intertwine our fingers, offering comfort in the only real way I know how.

Then he shoves out a breath and gives a small smirk, gripping back. "You're giving me more credit than I deserve; I'm capable of some pretty awful things."

"Then you'll just have to keep taking me along on your jobs so I can hold you back from them." His eyes flicker wide for a moment, as I process the offer I just made.

Jason wasn't lying, it's been pretty quiet and he's been around a fair amount, so there hasn't been any mention of jobs that I could tag along on. That doesn't mean I haven't thought about it. I liked working next to him, I liked fighting next to him, and I'm sure I could learn a lot just by watching what he does. If he doesn't mind, if he wants me along, I'd love to keep working with him.

"I'm not much of a team player," he warns me, with a small, crooked grin. "Can you keep up if I don't slow down for you, Original?"

I match his grin. "If I can't, leave me behind. Not interested in dragging you down, and how the hell am I supposed to learn if you play nice all the time?"

"Playing nice is _boring_ ," Jason says, his tone lowered like he's telling me some kind of secret, and then he laughs and tilts his head back. "Alright, deal. Next time a job comes along, you've got an invitation." He flashes me that grin again, fingers squeezing down around my metal ones. "You keep up, I'll keep inviting you. Sound good?"

"Sounds like a deal," I agree, just slightly flexing my fingers around his; always cautious of my strength when it comes to Jason. Not that he's fragile, but he's human just like me, and I don't have the kind of automatic fine-tuned control that I'd like to. For now, I have to stay hyper aware of exactly how much strength I use with my metal arm, or I could seriously hurt him.

Jason glances down at our hands, back up at me, and then focuses on our interlaced fingers as he lifts them a few inches away from his leg. "I've been wondering; do you get any sensation from it? You seem to react to touch, but I'm not positive if that's you seeing me move or you actually feeling it." I stiffen a little bit, and Jason's eyes snap up to meet mine. "If you don't want to answer just ignore me, I don't mind."

A part of me definitely does want to ignore him, doesn't like _anyone_ asking questions about my fake arm, but I swallow and shove out a breath to relax. "Yes, I get some sensation from it. The electronics are wired into my nerves; it's a replacement more than a prosthetic. It's muted, but I get the sensation of pressure and temperature changes. Just the basics."

"So, you can feel my fingers?" he asks, watching my hand instead of my eyes. I think that's his attempt at making me feel a little less like he's studying me, and it _does_ work.

I carefully flex my metal fingers again, and then turn our hands so his is on top. "In a way. I can feel the pressure of your grip, and the heat of your skin, but I don't get any of the physical feedback. I can't actually feel texture, or anything like that. It's not the same."

His head tilts back, gaze lifting to the sky and his eyes slightly narrowed, like he's considering something. "So if you were in the dark, without visual confirmation, a touch would be…?" Then his eyes turn to me, and I manage to meet them.

"Could be anything. Usually, if I'm not looking, I can tell what's touching me by the pattern of it, the heat, or the size. Fingers are pretty distinctive, everything else I'm still working on. I'm right most of the time."

I watch him turn to angle himself a little more fully towards me. "May I?" he asks, his free hand outstretched towards my arm but still more than a foot away. I wince a little bit, but nod. He doesn't move. "Roy, you _don't_ have to say yes. I'm curious, but if you want to tell me to fuck off just do it, I'm not going to take offense. Your arm, your body, your choice. There's pretty much not a damn thing in the world I believe more than that."

I push out another breath, and manage to curl the corner of my mouth in what might be something like a smirk. Probably closer to a grimace, but I'll take what I can get. "No, it's alright. Go ahead."

Jason holds my gaze for another moment, waiting as if he thinks I might change my mind if he gives me a few more seconds to think, and then gives a nod. He shifts a little more towards me, and then slowly pulls his fingers from between mine. His hand doesn't go far, just turns to carefully and loosely grip my wrist, holding my arm palm up and supporting it in the air. I watch his free right hand come forward, and I expect him to stroke it up my lower arm but instead it detours to my hand. Watching him gently, carefully, pull each of my fingers out of its natural curve to study it feels…

I don't know. Intimate? It feels a lot more intense than any connection I've had since I got back, and I can't help swallowing, but I don't pull my fingers away from him. His exploration is slow, fingers dipping into the seams and connections of the metal like he's memorizing each individual piece by the combination of touch and sight. I think that might actually be exactly what he's doing.

It's a little disturbing, but there's no part of my mind that thinks this is actually dangerous. I'm pretty sure that I trust Jason, and I don't think he would use this kind of knowledge to hurt me. I don't think he would need to. Now, the idea that he could kill me just fine on his own, without needing to know the details of my arm, is probably not the best reason to trust him, but not everything in my head actually makes any kind of logical sense. I trust Jason, that's what it boils down to.

Does having someone touching my arm with that kind of attention unnerve me? Yeah, a little bit. And yeah, it makes me kind of uncomfortable, and definitely self-conscious, but I can deal with that. He's not going to make fun of me for it.

His fingers slide up my palm, then to my wrist, and set to exploring the larger seams where my arm shifts and folds to become either the grapple or laser, or fire the missiles I've got stored in it. I swallow, and his gaze flicks up to meet mine. He pauses, still and holding my gaze.

"You don't like this," he says quietly.

I lift my other shoulder in a shrug, spinning the bottle of rum between the fingers of that arm. "Just makes me self-conscious about it," I admit. "It's fine, seriously." I set the bottle aside, not willing to take a drink right this second.

"Oh, it just makes me uncomfortable. Go ahead." Jason's voice is just a little teasing, and a small grin curls his mouth. " _Seriously_ , if you don't like it I'll stop." His fingers tap where they're resting just below my elbow, and he lowers his gaze away from mine and back to my arm. I flick my gaze down as his fingertips start tracing small patterns against the metal, not following the seams but just sliding in small circles and lines. "The craftsmanship on this is incredible, way beyond pretty much anything I've seen on anyone else. Why would you be ashamed of something as gorgeous as this?"

My breath catches, and I _almost_ jerk the metal away from Jason's fingers. "It's not _my arm_ ," I snarl, curling that hand to a fist, but Jason doesn't do anything but raise his head to meet my gaze. Calm and serious.

"You're not me, Roy," he says quietly. "You didn't screw up and get yourself captured, it was just chance fucking you over. This," his hand spreads out, clasping across the metal of the replacement for my arm, "isn't a scar, or a disfigurement, or some kind of blazing sign reminding the world that you _fucked up_. You didn't; I know the story."

"Don't you bullshit me, Jason," I spit in his face, and his eyes narrow.

Then I'm being _shoved_ back against the skylight, his right hand pressed hard into the center of my chest. His left hand is tight around the wrist of my metal arm, fingers pressed down into seams and blocking my ability to shift my arm into either of its weapons. He's partially crouched over me, balanced on his left knee and his right foot swung over so he's straddling and facing me, caging me against the skylight. There's an intensity to his gaze that's almost frightening, even as used to Jason's intensity as I am.

I lash out with my left arm, driving for his ribs, and he lets go of his grip on the front of my shirt to block the blow and push it harmlessly to the side. " _Listen_ to me," he snaps, gripping my arm and holding it down against my hip. He _is_ stronger than me, when it's just his muscles faced against mine, and he's got the better angle right now. "The only thing that arm means is that you fought Luthor to a standstill. _Barely_ unfrozen after eight years, missing your dominant hand, hunted by your mentor and your clone, and you still tracked Luthor down and forced him into a classic standoff." I struggle, only pulling against his hold with my real arm because I don't want to _hurt_ Jason, and to stop me his fingers take my wrist and twist, forcing my arm still unless I want to risk damage to it.

"You think Luthor would just _give_ someone a piece of technology like that, Roy? You think he'd just hand off something that took as much money and as much time as _that?_ You wearing it means that you forced him into a backup plan he didn't want to resort to." He pauses for just a moment, makes sure he has my gaze, and then quietly says, "What happened to you was shit luck, but that arm? That doesn't mean a _damn_ thing but that you're still dangerous."

I can't listen to him, I don't want to, and I bare my teeth and _snap_ them — he doesn't even flinch — as a distraction. Then I yank my metal arm away from his grip and get ahold of _his_ wrist, pressing my fingers into tender points and _twisting_. He gives a sharp exhale of breath as his arm turns and his shoulder is forced forward. It's fast enough that he all but collapses onto my chest, head smacking into my collarbone, to avoid it being strained.

" _Fuck_." His voice comes out as a hiss, as he releases my flesh and bone arm. He doesn't fight, even though I know from experience I pretty much _can't_ hold Jason in a pin if he doesn't want to be there. "Does that feel like _weakness_ , Roy?" he asks, breath warm even through my shirt.

It startles me enough that I let him go.

He stays where he is for just a moment, then slowly straightens up, his right hand bracing on my chest to give himself something to push off of. He stays close, doesn't pull back, and his eyes are still slightly narrowed but they're serious more than anything else. He eases back onto his heels, and tilts his head to the left as he raises that arm. My gaze automatically flicks to it, and then gets caught by the red imprints of where my hand dug into his skin that look like they're going to bruise.

"Shit, _sorry_ , I didn't mean to—"

" _Roy_ ," Jason's tone is sharp and commanding, and I yank my gaze up to his eyes as I swallow down my words. His mouth curls in another of those crooked grins, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "I know what it's like to look in a mirror and not see anything but the parts that remind you you're a failure." His gaze flicks up, and I follow the movement to that shock of white hair at his left temple. "That's a side effect of what fixed me, after the universe fucked up bringing me back to life. I can see it every second of a life I shouldn't even have, and all it comes with is questionable sanity and anger issues." He huffs out a breath, drops his gaze down between us. "Other side effects."

"Questionable sanity?" I echo. I've never seen Jason do anything that felt even a little insane to me, and I've never gotten any impression but that he's controlled and dangerous like any other member of the Bats.

Jason shakes his head. "Not the point. The point is," he looks back up at me, "do you have any _idea_ how relatively well you came out of all of this? That arm might not be yours, and it might hurt every time you look at it — and I _understand_ that — but it's dangerous, and it's beautiful, and it's something you _earned_." His fingers touch my shoulder, and I follow their path as they slide down my skin and then transfer to the metal of the replacement arm, finally stopping to linger just below my elbow. I meet his eyes, and his mouth curls up at one side, just barely. "This shows how talented you are, Roy, not any kind of weakness. I wish I had that kind of story to attach to mine."

My eyes are drawn back to that streak of white, and I carefully raise my right arm up towards it. He winces a little bit, but doesn't stop me from gently threading my fingers through the strands of white hair and combing them back from his face. Then, I smooth them back down to just where they were.

"Well, when you decide to tell me what happened to you, maybe I can give you a speech just like this one." He stares at me for a moment, and then gives a quiet laugh and ducks his head about an inch.

" 'When,' huh? You seem pretty confident." He moves as he speaks, pulling his head away from my hand and shifting to get off of me. He settles back into his spot next to me, his shoulder pressing in against mine again. "Maybe I like my secrets."

"Maybe," I concede, relaxing as I reach for the rum. Miraculously, it managed to survive our half of a struggle. "But you just let me bruise you to prove a point, and I could have done a lot worse by accident."

"Fair point." Jason leans into my side, and I startle just a little bit as heavy warmth lays down on my shoulder. His head; I can feel his hair brushing the side of my neck. His fingers find mine, and interlace, before I can figure out how to ask what he's doing. He breathes out a sigh, leans a little more weight onto me, and then quietly promises, "Someday, when I can get through narrating the whole fucked up thing without needing to hit something. Then I'll tell you."

"Works for me." My answer is equally quiet. "I'll wait; pushing seems like a really bad idea with you."

He gives a small snort, and doesn't raise his head from my shoulder. "Yeah, that's true. You train with assassins, you kind of gain an immunity to manipulation through violence."

I don't know why the heavy pressure of his head makes me relax, but I find myself easing into his touch, my neck turning so I can press my cheek down against his hair. I just stay still for a moment, inhaling a long, slow breath of Jason's unique combination of gun polish, smoke, and leather. Even without actually wearing his jacket, like today, he still smells like that thing. It's just a part of him. Maybe someday I should ask the story behind that too, as well as his knife. That's a pretty unique looking weapon.

Not today.

"When they're gone," I start, softly, "want to head back home? Do some sparring?"

"Got some energy to work off?" he asks, not making any comment about the fact that my head is leaned down on top of his.

"Memories, mostly." It's not as simple as wanting to hit something, but a spar with someone as dangerous as Jason will force me to focus on him, and ignore everything else that wants my attention. It's not the best way of coping, but it works for me.

"Got it," Jason says simply, not pressing any further than that. "Sure. Maybe I can run you through that arm-bar again, from last time."

"If by 'run through' you mean 'use on me,' I'll pass. Thanks."

Jason's laugh doesn't feel as free as it did earlier in our conversation, but at least it's something. "I'll be gentle. With that."

"Liar," I accuse, and then snort. "Maybe just once."

* * *

 **August 16th, 15:32**

* * *

"He seems better," my clone comments.

He's leaning against the counter next to me, not close enough to touch or for me to feel crowded, but close enough that he can lean to the side and speak with his head ducked down next to mine. Theoretically, close and quiet enough that Jason won't be able to hear him. He's across the room with Cheshire, her arm wrapped around his waist and head ducked down next to his. He's grinning with an edge that's more playful than violent, I know the difference now, and she says something that makes him toss his head back and laugh.

Except, "He reads lips too," I tell the Clone, who snorts.

The four of us are gathered at his apartment, Lian safely out of the house and being watched by Artemis for the night. It's Jason's birthday, and I might not have known until about three hours before Jason brought it up and invited me to my clone's celebration, but it still feels… natural. He's seventeen as of today, just a year and some change older than me if you don't count all the years frozen, and he seems fairly relaxed and pleased with the small gathering. It's nothing fancy, just a small cake, snacks, and some cheaper alcohol, but the mood is happy enough that I haven't been able to help enjoying it as well.

Plus, Jason is wearing some of his best civilian clothes, and by best I mean the ones that fit against his skin _just_ right. Dark blue jeans that hug his thighs and ass, and a tight shirt that's stretched by his shoulders and clings close to his waist. If I didn't know that he doesn't mind me looking, I'd almost be ashamed of how much I'm staring. As it is, I'm just taking advantage of the permission.

"He's not paying attention to us," my clone says, like he actually believes it.

"Yeah he is," I counter. Jason's gaze flicks to me for a quick moment, his grin ratchets a little higher, and then he looks back at Cheshire. That confirms that Jason, whatever he's talking about with her, isn't so invested in it that he isn't reading our lips out of the corner of his eye. "Maybe not a lot of it, but enough to keep track."

The Clone seems to catch the movement too, and he shakes his head. "Well, doesn't change anything. He seems better."

Jason flicks his gaze at us again, gives me a tiny tilt of his head, and then turns away. This time, far enough that I know he really _isn't_ paying attention to us anymore, at least not enough to read our conversation.

" _Now_ he's not paying attention." I look over at my clone, tapping the fingers of my metal hand against his counter. Jason pointed out that the sound unnerves people, so I make a point to do it as often as possible on the rare occasion I'm around my clone. "What do you mean 'better'? Jason's just fine."

The Clone meets my eyes, one eyebrow raised. "Wow, he _must_ be better with you around. Roy, Jason's a _long_ way from 'fine.' Have you seriously not seen it yet?" My expression must give him all the answer he needs, because my clone shakes his head again. "Alright, well, look at that." He gestures towards Cheshire and Jason. "That grip around his waist? Before today, I've never seen him allow anyone to touch him that casually. Not even her or me, and we're probably the closest thing he's got to friends. Especially a grip that could turn dangerous so fast, since she's close to so many dangerous spots and an _assassin_. The way he laughed? I've never seen him expose his throat like that unless he's sure no one's close enough to take advantage of it. I've never seen him leave two people as dangerous as us at his back either, so he has to either think we're not a threat," my clone looks down at me, "or think that one of us will make sure the other doesn't go after him."

His look is a little knowing, and I meet it evenly. "What's your point?"

He glances at Jason, then back to me. "You two are close." _That_ tone is a little guarded, sharp, and nearly sounds like an accusation.

"Not in the way you're suggesting," I counter. "We have a lot in common, that's all."

"Like what?"

My eyes narrow, and I push off the counter and straighten up, turning on my clone. "We don't treat each other like armed bombs, to start with. Or _victims_. And we both know a thing or two about useless, judgmental, fucked up families." The Clone recoils an inch or so, and I don't give him the chance to pull himself together. I turn my back, heading for Jason and Cheshire and not so much as looking over my shoulder.

I can see Jason track my movements — the little tilt of his head and shift to allow me room to come up next to the two of them — but he doesn't react to my presence until I've circled around to stand at the side Cheshire isn't occupying. Then he turns his head and aims his grin at me, the corners softening a little as he disengages from her grip and steps closer to me instead. The backs of our hands brush for a moment, and then his arm hooks around my shoulders and he carefully — giving me room to pull away if I want to — tugs me into his side. I go with it, because my clone might be a moron but that doesn't mean that I can't appreciate the feeling of Jason's torso pressed up against me.

He leans in towards my ear, says, "He say something stupid?" in a breath that's probably too quiet for even Cheshire to hear. Especially since she's stepped away to give us just a little space.

I give a noncommittal half of a shrug, and wait until Cheshire has stepped a little further away, turning to greet what's probably my clone, before answering. "Just thinks we're something we're not."

He snorts, and before I can understand what he's doing, let alone stop him, he turns his head towards the two of them and says, _loudly_ , "Just to clear things up, we _aren't_ fucking."

My clone chokes a bit on whatever he was in the middle of saying, I suck in a sharp breath, and Cheshire grins and then _laughs_. Jason's arm squeezes around my shoulders as I stare at him, or, really, at the side of his face since he's still looking at the two of them. His grin has softened to a crooked smirk, though it's also become just a little predatory, a little closer to the hunting animal he always feels a bit like. He glances over and down at me, and the fingers of the arm slung around my shoulders brush against the skin of my upper arm for just a moment.

"Aren't _yet,_ or don't _want_ to?" Cheshire asks, as she pats my clone on the back and doesn't even try to look sympathetic about his coughing.

Jason refocuses on her, that smirk turning into an equally crooked grin. "Up in the air," he answers, not committing to anything. "Though, you know," he looks down at me again, "it _is_ my birthday."

"You asking for a kiss?" I ask, my tone dry and just a little sarcastic.

"If I ask do I get one?" he counters.

I raise an eyebrow, then turn myself towards Jason. He lets his arm fall away from my shoulders, the look in his eyes a little wary, but also curious and interested. I can see Cheshire and my clone beyond him, both of them still and watching the two of us. I reach up, tracing my metal fingers up Jason's right arm, leaning in… And turn the tables on him.

I tighten my fingers to a real grip on his upper arm, and twist it at the same time as I step in and sweep his left leg out from under him with a hook of my ankle. His eyes snap wide with surprise, and forced off balance by the push and pull he topples forward. His knee hits the ground, and I bring my left knee sharply upwards to meet his chin and throat as they descend. His head yanks back, twists to minimize the blow, and I stop short. My knee taps against his throat, and then I restabilize and lower it again.

The apartment is dead silent, but I could give about half a shit about our audience. The only thing that matters is the blue-green eyes trained up at me, gaze a mixture of surprise and the intensity he always shows during a fight.

"I figured out that move you used on me two days ago," I say quietly, and release my grip on his arm. "Sparring's working after all; happy birthday."

He stares for a second longer, clearly _stunned_ , and then I can see him physically ease out. His mouth curls in a grin, eyes softening, and he gracefully pushes himself back to his feet. "Could have warned me," he says, sounding more amused than anything else.

"If I'd warned you," I point out, "I never would have pulled it off."

"Fair," comes the concession, and then he's leaning in to speak into my ear. His breath rushes against my skin, lips nearly brushing it as well; I can feel their heat. "Maybe next time, don't give the two older people heart attacks?"

I look past his head, towards the half-horrified expression on my clone's face, and the amused but tight one on Cheshire. Then to the coiled, ready-to-move body language on both of them. "No promises." I'll fully admit that I kind of enjoy scaring the two of them, especially when it comes to things they shouldn't be worried about. Jason wouldn't go after me unless I seriously fucked up, and I like to think I've got a better handle on what he's touchy about than that.

Then there are teeth grazing against my _ear_ , and I suck in a sharp breath and stiffen. Jason's pulled back before I can whip my head around to look at him, but when I do find his gaze it's smug, and silently laughing.

"What the _hell?_ " I demand, faking anger because Jesus _fuck_ I didn't need to know what that felt like. I don't think anyone in the room is fooled, but it's more automatic than thought through.

Jason shrugs, then gives a sharp grin and says, with more than a _hint_ of mocking, "Well, if I'd warned you I never would have pulled it off." Then he's turning around as I stare at him, speechless, and heads for the kitchen. "So, I think it's time for cake. All of you can either join me, or I'm eating the whole damn thing myself. Or taking it home. One of the two." He glances at me over his shoulder, grinning with a really _knowing_ edge as he asks, "Want a drink, Original?"

I think of the way those teeth felt as they raked across my skin, the way they hooked in the tiny edges of bumps… The way his breath rushed over my ear, hot and heavy and _right there_. I swallow.

"Yes."

* * *

Alright, so once again, the link to the fanart done for me by BiueBeetie is **on my profile _,_ near the bottom**. Enjoy!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4! Our first bit of real drama (but certainly not the last)! Hope you enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: stitching a wound closed, and Jason's mental instability.

* * *

 **August 30th, 07:13**

* * *

Jason takes me along on his next few jobs, adding me into plans and letting me see how he sets everything up before striking. If having to walk me through it the first time bothers him, he doesn't show it, and the second time I actually offer a change to make it smoother that he didn't see. It's easy to tell that it surprises him, but he doesn't make much of it apart from a single compliment.

The incident at his birthday shifts something between us. Not in a bad way, but there's just something new underneath our interactions that wasn't there before. Something in the way he grins, in how close he leans, in how my gaze starts to linger when he's around. It's not quite lust— the desire to drag him into a bed and see what he can do hasn't gotten any stronger— but it's like an undercurrent of heat. It's almost like some kind of drawn out flirting, where the words haven't changed but the meaning behind them has. Still, neither of us bring up the idea of a kiss again, or anything more.

We still spar, watch movies — he's decided it's his job to catch me up on the culture I missed — and play various strategy games to pass the time. Jason runs his business in the background too, whatever precisely it is that he's building to fight Batman and the Joker. I don't ask, and he doesn't tell me. Friends, sure, but that's not my business unless he wants it to be.

Honestly, the less I know about his plans concerning the Bats, the better. I'm really sure I don't want to be involved if it comes down to Jason versus Batman.

Now, if he wants me there maybe that's different, but I think he'd have to ask before I knew what I would answer, and he doesn't seem to have any intention of asking. That, I understand. If I ever go after Oliver, even a little, I would want to do it on my own. Grudges against family are different beasts altogether than normal grudges, or normal jobs. I won't intrude on Jason's issues with his family, and I'd hope that he won't mess with mine either.

Oliver hasn't been able to find me yet, and neither has my clone. Granted, I don't think my clone is trying to, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't feel good to have a place all to myself that he can't find me at. Especially because he only seems grudgingly accepting of the fact that I'm sticking around Jason, and even less accepting that I'm avoiding Oliver. He even brought up, briefly, that I shouldn't put Oliver through the same hell that he went through when I was captured the first time.

I haven't spoken to him since.

I'm not sure if Jason knows why I'm pissed at my clone, but he knows that I am. He hasn't brought him up since I started ignoring him, and hasn't made any mention of stopping by their apartment or anything else to do with seeing him. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he somehow knew exactly what words were exchanged between me and my clone. Even disconnected from the rest of the Bats, Jason seems to have a tendency to know things that by all rights he shouldn't.

Since I'm working with him, I get pulled all over the country, and out of it. He teaches me the basics of international travel that flies under the radar, but doesn't take weeks or end up being horrendously uncomfortable or cramped. Most of it involves smoothing the way with a fair amount of cash, and avoiding any sort of customs. For me especially, since there's no way I'm ever passing a security station or a metal detector, not with my arm. Jason, on the other hand, is one of the most charming, smooth, _liars_ I've ever seen in action.

He can talk his way around just about anybody, with the right accent and the right body language. It's pretty incredible to watch, even if seeing him flirt with and flatter women and men alike into doing what he wants isn't the most comfortable thing. It's not like I've got any kind of claim on him, but I'd be lying to myself if I said that there wasn't a large part of me that _wanted_ to have a claim. That irrational — I'm _not_ calling it jealous — part of me is always soothed by the fact that when Jason steps away from those people his flirtatious, charming attitude flicks off like a switch. It's not natural, not like the ease that we communicate with.

Maybe that's just me choosing to believe his behavior around me isn't just another act, and maybe it really _is_ , but we all act at least a little, right? What we are around one person may not be what we are around another. Besides, asking a vigilante not to _act_ is sort of a hopeless cause; staying anonymous _depends_ on our ability to act, sometimes. Terrible liars usually don't get into the masked lifestyle. Usually.

Jason _seems_ more genuine and open around me than anyone else, but he was one of the Bats, and trained by the League of Assassins after that. He could lie straight to my face and I'd never know, I'm sure of that. So, it's not like I have any option but to take him at his word.

He's at our safe house more often than not, but there are days where he vanishes without a word. Sometimes it's when I'm asleep, and I don't even know he's gone until I get the call telling me he's heading back from whatever he was doing. Those are always brief trips though, never more than about seventeen hours and usually much less. Sometimes I do actually see him leave, but he never volunteers where he's going, and I never ask. Another line I'm not willing to cross, not yet anyway.

I fill the empty times with practice, reading, anything, to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied. I don't actually have anything important to do, since I'm not well set up enough to go out on patrols or anything like Jason is, and I'm not really sure that's what I want to do anyway. There's a deep part of me that insists that I should help people, but I'm really not sure that just patrolling streets and beating up criminals is the way to make that happen. There has to be a better way, I just need to figure out what it is.

So in the meantime I practice, and I learn, and I take every bit of teaching that he'll give me.

It's an interesting balance that we strike between friends and partners, but it works for us. It seems to go well enough, anyway.

Until he vanishes, and doesn't come back. Not for four days, and I don't hear a thing. No updates, no casual check ins, not even a message dropped somewhere or relayed through my clone. _Nothing_.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me a little paranoid, and worried. It's not like Jason to up and vanish, not for this long and not this completely. Maybe I just don't know him well enough, maybe this _is_ normal, but it doesn't feel normal. I get thoughts that he's been injured, that he's stranded somewhere, that he's _dying_ somewhere, but practicality stops me following those trains of thoughts. Jason is a former Robin, he works best alone, he's ridiculously skilled, and honestly if someone had taken down Red Hood I would have heard. At the least, Cheshire would have heard, and I would have heard through her and my clone.

So when, finally, my phone rings, I pretty much scramble for it.

Before I can even say anything a voice, the Clone, says, " _You need to get over here."_

I swallow, straightening up from the stretched out sprawl that I fell into to be able to reach my phone. I was in the middle of a set of exercises, crunches, at that exact moment. "What? Why?"

" _Jason,"_ he says, his voice sharp but hushed, like he's speaking without wanting someone else to hear. " _He's back, he's at my apartment, he's injured, and he's_ _ **not**_ _in a good way. Get over here, fast as you can."_

I think for about half of a second, and then quickly agree, "Alright, on my way." He clicks the phone off even faster than I can, and I quickly get to my feet.

Throwing on other clothes happens in a blur, and so does leaving Jason's safe house.

The road feels too long, even though I take the bike Jason has carefully stored in the garage beneath the apartment building to make it faster. My mind goes crazy on the way, imagining worst case scenarios and just continuing to expand on them. My clone hasn't ever called me like that, not with that kind of urgency. He said Jason was injured, but didn't specify how bad it was. He _did_ say that Jason wasn't in a good way, which makes me think that the injury is pretty bad. I've never seen Jason injured, never managed to land more than a few minor hits on him unless he purposely let me, so what could be dangerous enough to injure him?

I'm not crazy enough to think I'm nearly the most deadly thing that Jason goes up against regularly, but I didn't think most of them were dangerous enough to do that kind of damage to him. And, by everything my clone said, to do _serious_ damage. What happened?

Is he dying? Is he crippled? Where was he? How did he get back? How badly did whatever kind of mission he was on go?

I probably shouldn't be as worried as I am, but I can't help it. I can't help being worried, and maybe just a little scared, because Jason is one of the most dangerous people I know, and someone who could _hurt_ him… I don't know who could do that, at least not without me hearing some kind of backlash about the fight. Hearing it _before_ he showed up again, injured however bad this is.

If it was this dangerous, why didn't he talk to any of us? I know my clone would have helped, and Cheshire would probably help, and _I'd_ damn well have helped if he'd even told me he was going. I never thought that Jason would be foolish enough to go into a situation dangerous enough that he could get hurt that badly; not without backup or at least telling someone where he was going. Or was it just a random, unfortunate accident? Just a bad turn in a dodge or a lucky thug?

Not knowing is worse than whatever could have happened. At least once I get there, once I _know_ what happened, my mind won't be able to run worst case scenarios anymore. However bad it might be, it probably isn't as bad as the image in my head of Jason being bloody and beaten, just a few steps away from death. Probably.

I'm not stupid enough to say that it couldn't possibly be, because life has a way of _fucking_ me over, and I try not to tempt it.

I nearly skid into a parking spot, almost crashing the bike but just barely managing to keep it mostly vertical and get it to a safe stop. I lock it, arm the defenses that will shock anyone who tries to move or activate it without the keys — Jason showed me that, at one point — and then book it inside and up the stairs. The elevator feels too slow, and at least I can control my speed on the stairs, when an elevator means sitting and waiting. That's harder.

I get up to my clone's apartment, only a little breathless, and take just a second to straighten myself up before I knock. It's closer to banging on the door, which probably isn't the sanest or the safest thing to do to an apartment owned by a vigilante and an assassin, but I'm just a little past caring at the moment. My nerves are too shot, too high strung, and I can't get that _image_ of Jason bleeding out of my head.

Luckily, it's only a couple of seconds before the knob turns, and the door pulls open. I get a flash of skin, red hair, and one green eye, and then it opens all the way. My clone tilts his head, stepping out of the way and gesturing me inside. My gaze catches on the blood staining his hands, flecked across his lower arms, and I freeze for just a second before hurrying inside. My gaze sweeps the apartment, barely cognizant of my clone closing the door and locking it again behind me. Luckily for my nerves, Jason is easy to find.

He's sitting on the coffee table, gaze trained up at me and his eyes narrowed. He's shirtless, slightly curled inwards, and his left side is bloody. He looks tense, but his breathing is even and he doesn't seem particularly troubled by whatever wound is hidden by his arm. Not enough for it to distract him, anyway.

My clone moves past me, back towards Jason. His gaze flicks to follow my clone's moments for a moment — his eyes seem very green, and bright; is that my imagination? — before returning to me. I stay still under that for a moment, but after getting over the initial intensity of his stare I move forward as well. It's at the same time as my clone sinks down to his knees at Jason's side and taps his elbow.

Seemingly reluctantly, Jason shifts his arm up and hooks it behind his head. I draw in a sharp breath, stopping in place where I am, roughly four feet in front of him. The wound in his side is a bullet hole, between two of his lower ribs, and it's painted both his side and most of the underside of his arm with streaks of blood. It does just look like the one wound, and he still doesn't look like he's real affected by it, so maybe it's not as bad as the streaks of blood make it look.

"What happened?" I ask, forcing myself to wrench my gaze away from his side and back up to his face.

Something almost like a sneer flicks across his face, as my clone picks up a discarded pair of fairly large tweezers, among other laid out tools, and raises them to the wound. Jason's jaw tightens as my clone digs into the wound, and his eyes close for just a moment, his chest rising in a deep breath. I'd be stupid to expect an answer under those kinds of circumstances, so I force myself to take a matching deep breath and swallow any other questions.

Naturally, Jason surprises me. "Just a mistake," he answers, mostly steadily. Really surprisingly steadily, considering my clone has tweezers buried in his side, digging for whatever bullet is still buried in him. His eyes open again, turning up my direction and clearly looking for a reaction.

The Clone gives one before I can. "A _mistake?_ " he snaps. "The angle of this isn't a _mistake_ , Jason, whoever you fought was trying to kill you. They were good at it, too. If you were going up against someone this skilled you should have contacted one of us to be backup. Why didn't you?"

"Wasn't your business," Jason snaps back, that sneer coming back as his gaze turns down to my clone. "Still isn't, so back the _fuck_ off." His voice is a low growl, and I _swear_ it's not my imagination that his eyes _glow_ for a second. What the hell is going on with Jason? Is _this_ what my clone meant when he said that Jason wasn't in a good way?

"That doesn't cut it when you get yourself _shot_ ," the Clone retaliates, though I can see the wariness in his gaze. That's enough to make me wary too, because my clone clearly believes that Jason is dangerous enough to be wary of, even with tweezers buried in his side and a bullet still in there somewhere.

Jason's scoff is mean, _mocking_. "It's not bad by _my_ standards; yours must be lower." His opposite shoulder rises in half a shrug, and the way his teeth bare for a second is a pretty obvious threat. "It's just another scar, so fucking what?"

"You could have _died_ ," my clone stresses, and then cuts off whatever response is brewing on Jason's tongue by apparently finding the bullet.

Jason's jaw clenches down as my clone pulls, and he shudders but doesn't make a sound, his eyes focused down at the carpet, as the tweezers leave the wound. I wince at the sight of the bullet, as my clone sets it aside and it clinks against the plastic tray, dripping Jason's blood. It's always a surprise how small a bullet looks once it's out of someone. How relatively little it takes to hurt someone so badly. It doesn't look like something that small could really cause the amount of bleeding that's stained Jason's skin, and my clone's hands.

Jason takes in a shallow breath, jaw loosening out again. "I could die every fucking time I take a job," he all but snarls. "What's the difference?"

"You could have called one of us," I interject, and Jason's eyes snap back up to me. It almost makes me flinch; the intensity in his eyes is so much stronger than the level I'm used to, and there's _anger_ in there that makes me automatically wary. Maybe the Clone is right, maybe it doesn't matter that Jason's injured. Something is _wrong_.

"Wasn't. Your. Business." Each of Jason's words is ground out, and the way his eyes narrow and his lips curl and bare teeth feels _dangerous_ in a way I'm not used to Jason being. "What's your fucking problem, Roy? I said _back off_."

My clone takes over as I flounder, swiping a wet rag over Jason's side to clean off his side at least a little. "You _make_ it our business when you come this close to dying, Jason."

The sound Jason makes is an ugly, hollow laugh, his head tilting back to throw the noise up at the ceiling. " _Dying?_ " he snarls, head twisting down towards my clone. "Don't you fucking _dare_ pretend you have any clue what dying feels like, _clone_." Jason doesn't even seem to register the fact that the jab makes my clone flinch and wince, or if he does it doesn't stop him. "Don't you _dare_. This isn't even _close_ to that; it's just a fucking bullet that's going to leave one more fucking scar and you're fucking _delusional_ if you think it's going to stop me. What happened was _my_ business, and you don't get any goddamn say in what I do with my life."

"Jason," my clone starts, and Jason jerks away and to his feet in one smooth movement that only ends when he's spun to look down at my clone and is standing tall, showing no trace of the fact that he's injured.

"We're done. I'm not in the mood to listen to a fucking lecture from someone who doesn't know shit about the situation; I'll handle it myself." He snags his shirt and jacket from where they're draped over the arm of the couch and tugs the shirt over his head. The side is already stained a dark red, but there's no rip in the white fabric so he had to have changed before he came here. That means he came here in civilian clothes; how long ago was it that he got shot?

He drags his jacket on as my clone gets to his feet, looking like he's caught between trying to get Jason to stay, and staying the hell out of the way. What _happened_ to put Jason in a mood like this? I've never seen him even half this bad before. Angry, sure, and irritated, but I've never seen this mean, almost _cruel_ side of him. Granted, I've never seen Jason injured either. Maybe this is just how he deals with pain? Extreme, but people have strange ways of coping sometimes.

He yanks the zipper on the jacket up and heads for the door, and for some _stupid_ reason I step into his path. "Jason, wait."

From behind him I can see my clone suck in a sharp breath, and hear the, "Roy, _no_ ," that he immediately reacts with. Quiet, like somehow he wants to warn me without letting Jason hear.

Jason's eyes are narrowed, and his hands are loose but his shoulders are raised and tense, his mouth slightly curled into something that's not quite a sneer. "Get out of my way, Roy," he hisses.

I brace myself a little bit, but remember that Jason's _never_ hurt me outside of a spar. Never even threatened to. "No. Jason, you're hurt, you're _not_ alright, and you need to stay here and at least let him finish patching that up."

"I don't need to do a fucking thing," Jason counters, hands curling to fists for just a moment before he moves. He takes one step to the side to move around me, brushing past.

I realize that grabbing his elbow to stop him is a terrible idea about a fraction of a second after I actually do it.

He turns on me in a flash of movement, and before I have the time to back off his left hand is cracking across my face. My head snaps to the side, and I release him on automatic as I stagger and fall to one knee, my mouth parting in a gasp because it feels a bit like a truck just hit my cheek. Instinct and combat reactions click in, and I'm lashing out at his legs before I think about it, kicking out and trying to get him down to the ground or at least to a knee. Somehow it manages to hit, and it's a fairly neat sweep of his ankles that knocks his balance out from underneath him and sends him crashing to the floor. I'm not blind to the fact that the only reason I get to my feet faster than he does is because he landed on his injured side, and that freezes him for a second.

He snarls and leaps at me, sliding into my guard like it's the easiest thing in the world and grabbing my collar to shove me backwards. It feels a lot like the time or two that I asked Jason not to hold back, just so I could see what he could really do when he put his mind to it. Especially in the way that he stays in my face, driving me back and not giving me the room that I usually rely on to fight the way I'm most comfortable with.

His last push slams me against the wall, and then his hand is on my throat and he's snarling in my face. The elbow of my metal arm is locked straight by his other hand and held between us, and his body is too close for me to get any leverage or any momentum to hit him hard enough to get him off of me. His fingers tighten, digging in hard enough to make me gasp for air, and there's something furious and unhinged in his eyes and expression that I can't even begin to place. All of it focused on me, and I think I might have _seriously_ underestimated how dangerous Jason is right now.

"Jason!" my clone shouts, and Jason's head snaps around. Past him, I can see my clone with his bow in hand, arrow on the string and drawn tight. Jason's fingers tighten a little farther, and something in my arm twinges in a way I really don't think it's supposed to. "Let him go," my clone demands. "It was just a mistake, you _know_ you don't really want to hurt him. _Think_ , Jason."

The fingers around my throat flex, forcing me to choke for just a moment, and then Jason is letting go and wrenching himself backwards. His head shakes, one hand rising to rake back through his hair, as I drag in a deeper breath and try not to cough it right back out. It wasn't hard enough to do serious damage, but I know I'll have bruises, and I know that it might wreck my voice for a day or so. My arm, well, I won't know about that until I get the chance to test it out and see if it was just a twinge or if something actually happened to it. At the least, I'm going to have one hell of a bruise on my cheek, and that's hoping that it's just a bruise and nothing got cracked or otherwise fucked up. Hopefully it doesn't swell too badly and mess with my eye.

Jason's fingers clench to fists, and then slowly ease out again. My clone doesn't relax the grip on his bow, or the tension on the string that will let him shoot Jason at a moment's notice. I don't think my clone would, but then I didn't think Jason would hurt me either. I'm out of my depth, and that stings a bit but mostly it's just really unsafe for me. I really don't like it.

Jason's head turns to me, eyes still furious but maybe a little less unhinged, and he gives a deep, rumbling, _snarl_ before he speaks. "Stay the fuck away from me," he warns, and then turns on his heel in a sharp jerk of movement and heads for the door. He yanks it open and then it slams shut behind him.

I push off the wall, staring at the closed door. "What the hell was that?" I ask my clone, raising my left hand to rub over my throat and test how much it hurts. Not badly enough that I can't ignore it, and that's good enough for me.

My clone slowly lowers his bow, letting the string relax and his legs straighten up from the slight bend of combat-readiness. He breathes out, slowly, and tosses the weapon aside. It lands on the couch, and then he meets my eyes. "I got this straight from Cheshire, so do _not_ tell Jason I know any of it. No one knows what brought Jason back from the dead, but what fixed him after that was something Ra's al Ghul controls. It's called the Lazarus Pit. Who the hell knows what's in it, or if it's science, magic, alien tech, or some crazy mix of all three, but it can turn the clock back. Heal, reverse aging, you name it. Talia, Ra's' daughter, threw him into it."

My clone moves as if to wipe a hand over his face, and then stops short at the still wet blood on his skin and promptly drops his hand back to his side. "The Pit has side effects. Insanity and altered behavior are the basics. It's not natural, but that doesn't make it any less real. Most of the time, Jason keeps it in check. _Most_ of the time, you'd never know that he had anything but basic psychological issues from what he's been through. No more than any of the rest of us. But when he's stressed, or something blindsides him, or he's just had a _really_ bad day, he slips up."

He _told_ me, didn't he? He said he was 'questionably sane,' he _said_ that he had anger issues. I guess I should have listened and put things together on my own instead of pressing him when I _really_ shouldn't have. I should have paid attention.

"Roy, _listen_." I snap my attention back to my clone. "If you ever see that green tint to his eyes, if they don't look _blue_ anymore, just get out of the way. Don't touch him, don't press him, just let him do whatever he's going to do. That green means he's slipped and whatever the Pit left in him has him, and he will _not_ be sane or rational until he can get it under control again. Don't test that."

I chew over the information, taking my time, and then finally nod. "Got it."

My clone's jaw tightens for a second, and then he asks, "Do you _really?_ You have to leave him alone, Roy. He could _kill_ you."

I raise my chin and narrow my eyes. "I knew grabbing him was a mistake, and I shouldn't have pushed the fight any further either. That was instinct, and now that I know it's more than just a bad mood I'll deal with it. _You_ said that he's been better since I've been around, so maybe without you trying to lecture him, he might be easier to talk to. If he _really_ doesn't want to be around me right now, he won't go back to the safe house we're sharing, so I'll take the chance that I can finish patching up his side before he loses any more blood."

"You can't—"

" _Don't_ tell me what I can't do," I snap. "I make my own choices, and you don't get to stop me because you don't like them." I turn, heading for the door, and throw over my shoulder, "I'll call tomorrow if everything goes well. If I don't, _then_ you get to come looking for me."

I'm out the door before he can manage a response, and I close the door firmly but without slamming it like Jason did. This time, I take the elevator. It gives me a bit of time to think.

What am I _really_ doing? And why?

Jason is definitely an ally, he's probably a friend, and maybe, someday, he could be more than that. Not counting my eggs yet, but it's definitely a possibility. Is that why I'm doing this? I'm not crazy, I _know_ this is dangerous. My cheek aches, so does my throat, and there's a slight pain on each shoulder blade from him throwing me against the wall. I _know_ Jason is dangerous, and I know he's capable of killing me. Maybe we've never had a real fight, where both of us were serious, but I know he's better than me. Especially in close combat, which is what fighting in the apartment would confine us to. If he's furious enough, if he's crazy enough right now, yes. He could kill me. But will he?

I don't think so.

Maybe that makes me equally crazy, but I really don't think that Jason would kill me, not even by accident. Not unless I pushed him in a way I shouldn't, like I did by grabbing him and then by retaliating when he punched me. But if I do that again, _knowing_ that Jason isn't in control of himself, really it's my fault. I shouldn't depend on him to control himself if I'm the one pushing in ways I know he won't like, that's somewhere between manipulative and cruel and I try not to be either of those things if I can help it.

So this is dangerous. So what? As Jason said, more or less, every time I step out on a patrol or into a fight it's dangerous. Jason is a safer bet than most of those jobs, even with this thing — the Lazarus Pit; I'm going to have to do some research on that — messing him up. Besides, maybe my clone has it wrong. If anyone knows what's wrong with Jason, it'll be Jason, and Cheshire might know the facts but that doesn't mean she knows the story. I get why he didn't tell me any of it either, though I would have appreciated a little warning that he might snap someday, or that there would be days that I should avoid him.

Which, speaking of, Jason _did_ warn me to stay away from him. Fuck that, though. What I told my clone is true. If Jason really doesn't want to see me, or to be around me, then he won't go to our home. He knows I don't have any other real place to crash, and he knows all my stuff is there, so he also knows that that's where I'll go. If he wants to avoid me he won't go there, simple as that. But if he _does_ , maybe I can help. Even if he won't talk to me, maybe I can at least stitch up his side and do what I can. Maybe when he's calmed down again he'll remember that, and choose to talk to me then.

There's no room in whatever the hell this relationship between us is for pity, or fear, or any kind of forcibly gentle behavior. Yes, Jason's messed up, but I shouldn't avoid and lie to him because of it. I should just be there for whatever he needs from me, whether that's sitting next to him to watch a movie, or having a drink, or just patching him up and not saying a word. I'm not going to push him, I'm not going to press for answers he doesn't want to give, and I'm not going to judge him for this. I will _not_ be my clone, and I won't be any of the other League members either. Jason doesn't deserve my pity, he deserves that I treat him like a normal fucking human who happened to make a mistake.

I think he should have called one of us to help, but I don't know the story. Maybe the fight wasn't supposed to be nearly as dangerous as it was, or maybe it really _was_ an accident. Maybe he stepped the wrong direction, or someone slipped under his guard, or something ricocheted in a way that just happened to be exactly the wrong angle. We have no way of knowing how he got shot, or if it's something that deserves a lecture at all. Everyone messes up sometimes, and clearly Jason's already in a bad enough situation that he doesn't need anyone harping at him on top of that. If he's really fighting for control, if he's trying to push this artificial madness back down to wherever he keeps it locked away, what kind of a piece of _shit_ would I be to force him into an argument about it?

Jason is a _friend_. I'm not hurting him if I have any choice in the matter, physically or otherwise. Not unless I have to.

I leave the apartment building and head back to the bike parked haphazardly at the curb. I'm almost surprised that it's still there, Jason must have recognized it, and I don't doubt he's got some way of driving it without the keys. Maybe he just didn't want to do whatever damage that might require. It's a nice bike; cutting the lines to false start it would be a hell of a way to ruin it.

I start it up, careful that the first thing that touches the bike is the keys — the defenses are still active, as far as I know — and climb on. I don't waste any time gunning it back towards our safe house, dodging any traffic I think is moving too slow — it's early in the morning, but that doesn't stop everyone — and driving a little too fast for anyone to think of stopping me. It's harder than people think to stop someone going that fast if the cop is parked, especially if the offender is on a bike. It's not a good idea, but I'm one hell of a driver and I know how to dodge law enforcement. Those are skills you pick up when you work as a vigilante.

It takes longer than my nearly desperate ride to my clone's apartment did, especially because there's more cars on the road now than there were before, but I'm not in nearly as much of a hurry. Jason doesn't have the bike, and it's not like I'm trying to beat him back anyway. If he's there when I get back, that makes things simple, but if he's not there, that doesn't change anything. I'll set up first aid supplies, and I'll wait for him. At least for a few hours, until whatever point I decide that he's not coming home today.

If he doesn't, well… There's not much I can do. If he doesn't come back, or if he doesn't let me fix up his side, I can only hope he's still got the rationality to do it himself. He was bleeding, and it might not have been that bad but if you lose enough blood, even over that much time, it can still be fatal. I doubt Jason would let that happen, even if he is partially crazy right now, but I'm not sure. I don't know the limits of how this affects him, if there even are limits. I can't count anything out yet.

I'd _like_ to not count anything out until I actually get the word from Jason himself, if he'll tell me about it. I don't like getting my information secondhand, especially about stuff like this. It's not smart, or fun, and too many times the information ends up being wrong, or at least not comprehensive enough. Better to just wait and see what Jason himself will tell me, whenever he's alright with doing that.

We don't push each other about things we're not willing to talk about, that's an important part of whatever we have going on. It's mutual respect, and a mutual understanding that traumas are exactly that; traumas. They're fucked up, they're terrifying or sometimes infuriating, and if you don't want to talk about them no one should make you. That's that. Period. End of discussion.

I would never forgive someone who forced me to talk about what the Reach did to me, or how it felt, and that was barely even a physical trauma. They didn't torture me, or experiment on me, or try and break me. All they did was steal eight years of my life and part of my arm, but that doesn't mean that it didn't hurt like I'd actually been injured. It doesn't mean that it doesn't _still_ hurt, even though they're gone. Jason's traumas were physical, they were drawn out from what I remember knowing about them, and I'm not going to say that makes them more valid, but it at least makes them equal.

I'll _never_ press him to talk about what happened to him, or what it left behind.

I park the bike in the building's garage a lot more carefully than I did in front of my clone's building, but I still activate the defenses before heading upstairs. Theoretically safe place or not, it doesn't pay to take risks. Especially with things that aren't mine, and Jason might be a little pissed if I lose his bike on one of the very few times that I drive it. He might never let me drive one of his vehicles again, and that would be kind of a shame. I'm sure he's got some really nice ones somewhere, and I'm not nixing my ability to eventually get a try at driving one.

That, and I'm not going to put the idea in his head that I can't be trusted with his things. I can be safe, I can be careful, and maybe that proves that he can trust me with his gear and more. Trust is one hell of an important thing, and it's a seriously fragile thing too. I know that, and so does he.

I get upstairs and into our apartment, and slip the keys back into their spot in Jason's room, to the side of his spread of basic weaponry and in a small black plastic dish. Then I close his door and retreat into the rest of the apartment. I take a second to consider before heading for the master bathroom, to underneath the counter where I know one of the first aid kits is stored. The other is beneath the kitchen counter, but I know the contents of this one better, since it's directly off of the room Jason let me have. I took my time exploring the room he gave me, the bathroom attached, and then pretty much every room in the apartment except Jason's. I wasn't going to invade his privacy.

I pull the kit out to the kitchen, onto the table in the center of the room, and flip it open. I pull out what I'll need to clean and stitch the wound, setting it aside and in easy reach, and then move to grab a small bowl from one of the cabinets. I fill it up partway with water that I carefully make sure is lukewarm, not cold, and then lean down to grab one of the kitchen towels from underneath the sink. It'll stain easy, but who cares? Throw it out, burn it, whatever. It's just a towel.

I'm just finishing putting everything in easy reach, and circled around one of the chairs that I've pulled partway out, when I hear the door open. My head snaps up, but hearing the rasp of a key in the lock I relax a little bit. Slowly, I head over to the archway to the kitchen, far enough out that I can see the front door.

It's Jason, closing the door and looking a bit like a wary dog. His chin is lowered, shoulders raised in tension, with an expression somewhere between pain and anger, but still with that green edge to his eyes. I still can't see the blue that I know they are, but I try not to let that throw me. I didn't expect Jason to magically get better between there and here.

"Hey," I start, keeping my voice quiet.

He pauses, like he thinks I'm going to add in something to the end of my greeting, and then cautiously responds with a mimicked, "Hey."

I glance down at his side, seeing where the blood has leaked down past the edge of his jacket and into his brown cargo pants, though it hasn't soaked through the leather jacket yet. It looks fresh, but I hold back any reaction to that except for a very small wince. I look back up, holding Jason's gaze for a moment, before asking, "Let me stitch that up?"

He hesitates, staying still at the door and with an edge to his eyes that makes me think he's considering it but maybe not willing quite yet. I watch him for a moment, before dipping my head in something like a surrender. I really only mean it to calm him down, make him be a little more at ease.

"If you don't want to talk, just say so. I'll stitch it up and won't say a word. If you _do_ want to talk about whatever happened, I'll listen, and if you don't want my opinion just say that too." I hold his gaze, and give a small curl of my mouth that could be taken as a smile, if he wants to see it that way. "Really, all I want to do is patch you up. Past that, your decision. You know I won't push."

He relaxes some, and his head dips down in a nod, though his eyes never leave me. "Alright. Kitchen?"

I shift back, heading in and trusting that he'll follow, and head over to the chair I've got pulled out. I don't hear him follow me, but when I turn back around he's at the archway, his gaze lingering on the chair. Then he loops around to the other side of the table, and pulls himself up onto the corner of the wood instead. It doesn't quite make sense in my head, but I trust that whatever reasons Jason has for not wanting to sit down in an actual chair are valid enough. It's not my decision anyway, it's not like I can force him to sit somewhere he doesn't want to.

He pulls the zipper of the jacket down as I shift my supplies over, shrugging it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. The bloodstain is bigger now, and that worries me a little bit, but I hold that back. Jason's still moving, he doesn't look abnormally pale, and he's not showing any signs of shakiness or dizziness, so he's probably alright for now.

His shirt comes off next, and he lets that drop with no more ceremony than the jacket. Then his gaze turns to me, and with his torso bare I can see the slight stiffening of his muscles as his gaze flicks along my frame. I stop in my tracks, and his eyes snap back up to me. For the moment that he stares at me, I stay exactly where I am. It's not exactly the best of spots to be in, and I'm a little closer to his back than I think might be safe, but moving away might not be a good idea either.

Finally he shoves out a breath and shakes his head. "Take off your sweatshirt," he orders, with an uneasy edge to his voice.

I want to ask why, and I want to know what it is that's making that green edge to his eyes glow a little brighter, his muscles tense a little bit more than they should, but I bite down on my questions. I take half a step back from the table, reaching down and pulling my sweatshirt over my head, only slightly wary for the moment that it covers my eyes and I can't see Jason. I know he wouldn't kill me just like that, it's fine. I drop it to the floor, and I watch his gaze flick along my frame another time before he nods, small enough I think it's only meant to be confirmation to himself.

He raises his left arm away from his side, clasping his hand at the back of his neck. He doesn't stop watching me, but it's an obvious invitation to move on with actually patching him up. I shift a little closer, pulling the bowl of water and the towel with me. I can't see his other hand, it's hidden behind his torso from this angle, but given his mood I'm pretty sure it's not more than a few inches away from a weapon. I wet the cloth and then raise it to his side, swiping in a broad stroke just to try and get a fair amount of the blood off. I want to at least be able to see the wound clearly, and I can't do that with all of what he's already bled in the way.

I take my time cleaning up the surrounding area, and then move on to more carefully dabbing at the wound itself. I can see the slight tension of his muscles every time I touch it, but he doesn't make a sound apart from slow, steady breathing. I try not to pay too much attention to the way he's watching me either; in fact I try not to look up at all. Jason's reaction to me patching him up isn't the concern, it's just the wound. I'm not here to judge, or to study, or anything else. I'm just here to clean the wound out, stitch it up, and put a pad over it to stop any kind of infection or bleeding onto anything else. So, that's what I'll do.

Eventually, after I decide that the wound is clean enough for me to actually work on — I'll have to take the towel to it some more after I start stitching, but for now I can start — and put the towel down, he shifts a bit.

"You can talk," he says, his voice quiet and tight, but without any of the fury that he was showing earlier. "Don't expect answers but… You can talk."

"Sure about that?" I ask, glancing up to find his gaze as I pick up the needle and thread.

He pushes out another breath, and inclines his head an inch or so. I'm pretty sure it's not my imagination that his eyes don't seem quite as green anymore. "I'm sure." He's quiet for a moment, still even past me pushing the curved needle into his skin, and then, even softer, says, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know," I answer, with another glance up. "You don't have to apologize, Jason, I know it was an accident, and I'll be fine."

He gives a small scoff, this one a lot less vicious than the one he gave back at my clone's apartment. "You'll bruise."

"And I'll heal," I finish. "What about you?" I look up, finding his gaze and holding it as I pull the thread through his skin. He doesn't show even the slightest indication that it hurts, even though I know that getting a wound stitched closed hurts like a bitch, especially without anesthetic. "Going to be alright?"

"The wound or what's wrong with my head?" He sounds a little bitter, but the question seems serious enough. So I respect it as if it's a real question, even if it isn't.

"Either," is what I decide on saying, turning my gaze down for the second push of the needle. "Wound looks fine to me, but you're the one who got shot, so you might know something I don't." He gives a soft huff that sounds kind of amused, if tired, and when I look back up his gaze is trained towards the floor.

"What do you know?" he asks, glancing at me again.

Since he's not looking at me, I look down at his wound and keep my attention there as I answer. "Not that much, and maybe it's not right. My clone said that how your brain damage got fixed was something called a Lazarus Pit. He said that it did heal you, but it had side effects. Insanity, changes in behavior, that kind of stuff. Said it wasn't that you were insane, but that whatever it is that's left behind makes you insane sometimes." I pause for a moment, pulling the thread through the second time and still not looking up. "He said you hold it down, most of the time."

He's quiet for a long few moments, and then out of my peripheral vision I see him give a small nod. "Cheshire, huh? Yeah, that's more or less right. I don't know if it's not me, it _feels_ like it's me most of the time, but… I suppose technically it's not. Had that drilled into my head enough times to believe it, more or less."

Against my better judgement, I counter, "Doesn't sound like you believe it," and then look up. Our gazes meet, and then he shakes his head and looks away. At least not looking at me is a step in the right direction, it means he trusts me at his injured side without having to watch me like a hawk.

"Does it fucking matter?" he asks in a mutter. "Whether it's me that's insane, or just the Pit's after effects making me that way, it ends up the same. I have to fight it, and hold it down, and sometimes it just… Sometimes it just doesn't matter. I can have a perfect day, a perfect _month_ , but then one thing happens and I lose it." He pauses, head tilting back, and I can see his hand clench on the back of his neck. "How much of me is even me anymore? I _know_ I'm different than I was before I died, but how much of that is just that it changed me, and how much is the Pit _fucking_ with me? Who the hell am I supposed to ask that question? I don't even know how the Pit works, or if what it did to me can be fixed. And if it _can_ be, will it kill me? Will it reverse the healing it did and make me damaged again?" His mouth curls in a snarl, and his eyes squeeze shut. "I don't have any _fucking_ answers," he spits, head lowering again.

I look down again, pushing the needle through for the last time and pulling the thread tight to cinch his flesh together over the wound. Carefully, as I think of something to say — or if I should say anything at all — I tie off the thread. I cut the end, set the scissors and the needle aside, and then very cautiously reach forward to touch his leg, high on his thigh and not any more than a brush of my fingertips. His eyes snap open, turning to me, but he doesn't jump or tense like I expect him to.

I hold his gaze for a moment, as I pull my hand back, and then give my own small nod. "If you want my help, I'm here." I reach for the towel again, letting my gaze flick away from his for a moment to find it without groping. "I'm probably one hell of a lot less qualified than you to be hunting for those kinds of answers, but if you want me to try I will." I give a small shrug, wetting the towel again, and then meet his eyes for a fraction of a second. "Or, if you just want someone to keep people like my clone the hell away from you when you're not quite in control, I can do that too. Maybe violently, but I can do it."

He stares at me, and then quietly speaks, his voice a little shocked sounding. "Thanks, but why?"

I let my mouth curl in a faint grin, as I clean up his side. "You're teaching me, I'm staying in your house, you're my friend…" I pause my movements, and let my grin fade as I hold his gaze. It's probably not smart, especially not right now, but I end it with, "I'd like to be more. Take your pick of reasons." Yeah, bringing this up right now is definitely a bad idea, now that I think about it, but on the other hand I know Jason appreciates honesty.

I know he'd be able to tell if I lied, even if he didn't go after me for it.

He watches me as I return to cleaning his side, and grab the medical tape and pad with my free hand to pull them within easy range. He's quiet as I finish cleaning the immediate area that the pad will go over; the rest can wait until later. I push the pad onto his side, over the wound, and hold it in place with my elbow as I reach for the tape. I get one side taped down before he speaks.

"I nearly crushed your throat," he says, in a breath of a voice. "I could have killed you, Roy."

"You didn't," I counter, without looking up. "If you'd really wanted me dead I'd be dead, Jason. We both know I couldn't stop you in quarters that close." I look up once I've taped the opposite side down, held tight to his side. "We also both know I shouldn't have grabbed you, and I should have just taken the punch and left it at that."

He winces. "You shouldn't have to cater to what's _wrong_ with me—" he starts, and I cut him off.

"Maybe not, but I'm going to. It's not _catering_ if it's reasonable, Jason." I finish taping off the third side, and then tear another strip of tape for the last side. "It's not just you. I shouldn't have grabbed anyone as obviously angry as you were, especially not anyone in our kind of business. It was a stupid move all around, not just because it happened to be you I was grabbing. You know that."

He stares at me for another moment, as I press the tape down over the last side of the pad and then carefully check my work. "But…" He swallows, and I look up to meet his eyes. "Why?" he presses. "I'm not a healthy choice, for anyone involved, and what other people will _think_ of you—"

"You think I give a _damn_ what other people think of me?" I ask, with a sharp edge to my voice that stops whatever stupid thing he was about to say. "We're both screwed up, Jason. I'd really rather not have to deal with someone trying to _fix_ me, and you haven't. How about you just trust that my judgment might not be fantastic, but it's still _mine_ , and I'll trust that whatever your answer is it's _yours_ , and not because you think other people won't approve. _Fuck_ them."

His mouth flicks into a smirk for just a second — I can see the blue in his eyes again, just a hint of it — and then it fades away, as his arm lowers back down to his side. "You're sure about this?" His tone is a little cautious, a little wary, but I ignore it.

I reach up, keeping my movements slow so he has time to move away or stop me if he needs to. I carefully trace my metal fingers over his cheek, stepping to the side and easing my way in between his legs. The fact that he lets me part them gives me a little bit of confidence, even if it feels like I'm balancing on a highwire with a pit beneath me full of something that's probably metal and _very_ sharp. I fit myself close to him — our heads are at about an even height, since he's sitting on the table — and let my hand slip backwards into his hair, running it back through and then down to touch the back of his neck. I raise my other hand after that moment, gently touching his jaw with my real fingers and almost having to swallow at the feeling.

He's still, waiting, and I can see wariness in his eyes but mostly it just looks like anticipation.

I lean in, flicking my eyes closed and letting my lips brush along his. Because I'm so close, and because I'm touching him, I can feel the slight tremble in his shoulders, and the puff of air across my lips as he makes a low, soft sound I can't identify. Then his hand is touching my side, fingertips grazing up with cautious pressure, and he's leaning forward into me. The touch of his lips is a little more intentional than my slight brush, even if it stays completely chaste. It's nothing more than a soft meeting, but something in me eases and brightens at the same time. I stroke my fingers across his jaw, _very_ gently give a squeeze of my other hand to the back of his neck, and I can feel the hand at my side curl into a fist, gripping some of my shirt.

Then he's tilting his head to the side and breaking the kiss, and I can feel another small shudder slip across his frame. His legs press in against my hips, and I open my eyes. He's not looking at me, his eyes aren't even open, but it still feels like he knows exactly what he's doing when he leans forward and buries his head against my shoulder. I can feel his breath warm against my skin, even through the thin fabric, and I carefully slide my metal hand down his back. The other I push back a little bit, to comb through his hair and actually feel it between my fingers. My head ducks down a little bit.

"It's really not a good time to do this," he says quietly, even as he leans further into me. "I'm not… This has been a really _shitty_ day, and I'm not really…" His forehead presses a little harder into my shoulder. " _Fuck_. You don't deserve me using you, and if we do this right now that's all it's going to be."

I keep up my gentle strokes through his hair, and then lean in and press my lips to the side of his throat. I can feel him jump a little bit, so I pull back, but he doesn't obviously react in any way but that. "Well, contrary to popular belief I _can_ be patient sometimes. It's not like I'm in a hurry; we can take this as slow as it needs to be." I pause, and then, giving voice to that slight hint of doubt in my chest, ask, "This isn't just me, right?"

He gives another amused huff of breath, and his hand eases out on my side and squeezes for just a moment. "It's not just you, and… Yeah. Not right now, but once I've got this under control, then I'm down for revisiting it."

"Deal," I agree, closing my eyes and leaning just slightly into him. "So what do you want right now? I can crash at my clone's for the night, if you want the house to yourself."

He shakes his head, squeezing my side again. "No, it… It helps, having someone around that I trust. Would you just…" He shoves out a breath, and then snorts. "This is going to sound fucking sappy as hell, but would you just lie on the couch with me for a while?" He hesitates, and then starts, "The contact—"

"You don't have to explain," I interject. "Whatever works for you. Do you want to change first; something a little less bloodstained?"

He gives a laugh and straightens up, releasing my side and then meeting my gaze when I look up at him. "Yeah, that might be a good idea. Meet you at the couch?"

I let him go, stepping back and out from between his legs. "Sounds good. Take your time; I'll clean up in here."

Jason pauses to nod, and then slips off the table and heads out of the room without another word. I set to work cleaning up the first aid supplies as well as washing the blood off my hands, leaving the kit on the table — might need it again tomorrow to change the dressing, depending on how much more he bleeds — and then snagging his shirt and jacket from the floor, as well as mine. I also grab a bottle of water from inside the fridge before heading out. I leave the water at the foot of the couch — Jason's not out yet — and then detour into the master bedroom to deposit the clothing into the hamper. It's more likely that they'll just get thrown out than cleaned, but I'd rather leave Jason the option of what to do. Especially when it comes to his jacket, which I tuck over the edge of the hamper but don't actually throw in.

When I head back out into the living room Jason is standing in front of the couch, dressed in a looser black t-shirt and equally black sweatpants. Comfortable clothes. I loop around as he takes a seat at one end, leaning down and grabbing the water from where I set it and taking a long drink. I take the opposite end, and only hesitate a moment before doing what I normally would and stretching out, my back at the arm of the chair and my legs out near Jason. Jason, who shifts with me and, instead of mimicking me on the other side of the couch, diverts my legs into parting and then eases between them. I stare for a moment, but don't stop him from sliding his way up my frame, and then gripping me by my upper arms and tugging me down so only my head is supported by the arm, and otherwise I'm flat on my back.

It does dry out my throat for a moment — didn't we _just_ agree that this wasn't going to happen right now? — but I stay silent. Jason watches me for that same moment, and then sinks down and adjusts himself to be lying on his side on top of me. My breath comes out in a rush, and I'm almost thankful that he chooses not to mock me for it. Instead his right arm slides underneath my back, his left presses in against my side, and his head settles just about right over my heart. I swallow, and he hums out a quiet noise of contentment and gently strokes up my side with his hand. Equally carefully, I raise my left arm off the couch and up to his hair again, looking down as I run my fingers through it.

He breathes out, slowly and evenly, and tilts a little further into me.

"Want me to put something on the TV?" I ask, keeping my voice quiet enough it could probably be called a whisper because I _don't_ want to break whatever this moment is.

"If you want to," he answers, equally quiet. "Might be nice to have background noise."

That's probably about as close to a 'yes' as I'm going to get. I slowly reach over to the coffee table in front of the couch with my free hand, thanking the fact that neither of us like getting up after we're comfortable that it's in reach. I flick the TV on, immediately lower the volume to audible but not intrusive, and then set to flipping through things. I finally settle on some kind of fantasy-looking TV show, and then turn my attention back down to Jason. His eyes are open and still unnaturally green, but he doesn't feel tense so that's something.

I trace my fingers across his scalp, then shift to comb his hair away from his face, including that white streak. His eyes drift closed, and his arms tighten around me a little bit. "Just keep doing that," he murmurs.

I can feel my mouth curl a little bit at one side, almost like a smile. "You got it, Jay."


	5. Chapter 5

And, on to chapter 5! You know, now that they've actually shared a kiss. XD Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: claustrophobia, and a semi-panic attack.

* * *

 **September 14th, 19:46**

* * *

The sound of Jason's guns is loud in the confined warehouse, but it's also a sound I'm really used to. It's just a basic fight, in fact, it's not even a job. I got tipped off through my clone about a gun shipment coming in through this particular dealer, and he had other business to do so he passed the information on to me. Jason agreed to come with me, partly because I know, like me, he wants to look through the crates and take anything that's particularly good. The rest can go to the authorities, but the best bits we're definitely saving for ourselves.

I think it's the first thing I've been on with him that hasn't been one of his jobs, and it's all a lot more low key than I'm used to being with him. These aren't bodyguards or assassins, they're just thugs. Consequently, Jason isn't killing. Taking them down hard, sure, and maybe not all of them walk again when he's through with them, but he's not killing anyone. I stick to that same code; maybe it will stop my clone getting on my ass later and bitching at me about being a lot rougher than I need to be. Not that he has room to complain, not since he handed this off to me instead of dealing with it himself.

It almost feels like just an exercise, or a spar. These people aren't enough to be threats, not against the combined force of both Jason and me, and definitely not since we've more or less sparred and worked with each other enough to really click. I take long range, and he fights close and personal with the occasional ending shot. He keeps people off my back, and I keep them off his. I'm still not as good as he is in a real fight, but I'm getting there. Helps that he's the one teaching me, and that he doesn't really pull punches.

Admittedly, he's also kind of distracting.

Ever since that night in the kitchen, since that _kiss_ , concentrating around him is a lot harder. It's not that he's just ignoring it, but that now I know there's something there, I know it's possible, and staring at him is much more rewarding. Actually, he did about the furthest thing from ignoring that night.

He fell asleep on top of me, with my fingers running through his hair. New experience for me, I don't think I'd ever seen Jason sleep before that night. I definitely didn't think he trusted me enough to fall asleep, especially in quarters that close. It didn't take long after that for me to fall asleep too, the TV still droning in the background. He was gone when I woke up — how he got off of me without waking me up I don't know — but only as far as the kitchen. Getting served breakfast felt a bit like an alternate universe, some kind of strange one where we're both happy, normal people with a normal suburban home, and actually the kind of people that made breakfast for each other.

It was surprisingly good, actually. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that Jason can cook too, even though our meals before then tended to be overly simplistic and efficient things, frozen dinners, or takeout. If there's a skill, chances are good Jason's either good at it, knows about it, or is working on it already.

But the way that he crawled on top of me after, his knee fitting between my thighs and his lips gentle against mine, that was way better. With clear blue eyes, a wry smirk, and a whispered agreement that this definitely _was_ something we should experiment with.

We haven't done anything serious yet, not really. He's fallen asleep on me twice more since then, but otherwise come the end of the night he still retreats to his own room, and I haven't been invited to join. Actually, I don't think I mind. This thing with Jason, whatever it is or whatever it can be called, isn't simple. It's not some bullshit whirlwind romance where we could fall in a bed with each other and everything would just click into place. This might be slow, and yeah, sometimes I might see him and have to bite my tongue not to just gather him up and kiss him until he gives me one of those soft, breathless sighs, but I can hold myself back.

Especially because I _do_ get those kisses, and those sounds, they just happen to end there. That's not a negative, not when it means that Jason will curl into my side, or pull me into his side, and just relax with me. Not when it means that at any moment I can pull him close to me, kiss him, and then let him go again. Not when it means I get those moments where his eyes are still closed, and his fingers are still faintly grasping at my arms or sides, still holding onto me for a moment. Sex isn't everything; I'm figuring that out.

Also, I've never slept with a guy before, so I'm really waiting for Jason to make the first move on that front. I don't know exactly what to do, or how the mechanics work, and with Jason at my shoulder nearly all the time I really don't have the space to figure it out without alerting him. Sure, I could just _ask_ , but that stings my pride a little even though I know it shouldn't. Jason knows I haven't slept with a man, he probably wouldn't be anything but matter of a fact — _or hands on_ , says a heated part of my mind — in explaining how it worked. He's not cruel, not unless the Pit is messing with his head, and even then it's just defensively cruel. Hurt someone else and they don't go after you as hard. Simple tactics.

So I'm letting him set the pace. However slow he wants to go, I'll stick to it. Whenever he decides that the time is right to let me share his bed, or to join me in mine, I'll gladly go along with that too.

Jason slips around my back, where I'm half crouched behind one of the few dozen freezer chests stored in this warehouse, taking shots at the guys across the room. I hear one of his guns go off, hear the thud of someone hitting the ground, and he presses close to my back. I'm sure rumors will start circulating soon enough about Arsenal and Red Hood working together. He's got his helmet on, but that doesn't stop me hearing the slightly modulated voice as he speaks nearly into my ear.

"Ready for the final push?" he murmurs, more than quiet enough that the morons across the room won't be able to hear him over the sounds of their guns.

"More than," I answer over my shoulder, taking down another thug who collapses, screaming and clutching at his bloody hip. "So what, we finish taking them down and just tie them up and leave them?"

"One of those unloaded trucks looks like a decent place to store them," he counters, with a small laugh. "Meet you there."

Then he's off and running, dodging around half-open crates and hints of grey metal towards the rest of the thugs. I do my job, taking out one after another with well placed shots, while the sharp, cut off shouts tell me that Jason is being just as effective. Mostly out of sight, but the flashes of movement I can see prove that he's carving a pretty good path through them, taking down anyone in his way. He actually takes down the very last one, leaping out from behind a crate and tackling the last thug. I imagine the crack of sound as I see his head hit the floor, but I'm too far away to actually hear it. The thug goes limp, and Jason straightens up as I do.

"You got zipties?" I call, and without looking he digs into his jacket and pulls out a coiled hunk of them to hold up in my direction. I head for him as he kneels down, manhandling the thug's arms behind him and into one of the zipties, the rest tucked underneath his elbow. The lucky thug stays totally still, completely unconscious.

I come up to his side, as he finishes patting the guy down for weaponry and then stands back up. I take a look over at our choice of trucks, and then give a small sigh. "You get them tied up and in a pile; I'll unload the truck all the way. Locking them in with guns and a few crates of ammo sounds like a bad idea."

"Probably," he agrees, and then his helmet tilts my direction as he leans down and hefts the thug by the collar of the black jacket the guy's wearing. "Why do _I_ have to deal with the unconscious bastards?" he grumbles. "Or still screaming. Can I knock those ones out?"

"Feel free," I grant. "And because I," I lift my metal arm and gesture to it, "can lift heavy crates by myself easier than you can. Also, they don't know you as a hero, so they're more likely to do what you tell them. I might get some backtalk."

He snorts, following me as I head towards the nearest mostly unloaded truck, dragging the guy with him. "You owe me for this," he says, though it sounds mostly teasing.

I slow for a moment, so I can step in next to him, and then lean over to murmur, "You take that helmet off and I can repay you right now." He won't, not since this is going to be fairly public and there are definitely cameras in the warehouse, even though they should be turned off for this particular illegal transaction. He drops the guy in the clearest space in front of the truck, and I reach forward to curl my hands in his jacket and tug him closer. "Otherwise, I guess you'll just have to wait."

He presses close, his right hand coming up to trace gloved fingers down my left arm. I'm pretty sure he's getting blood on my skin too, but it really doesn't matter enough for me to actually care. "Later then."

He lets me go, I do the same for him, and he turns towards the nearest of the pained noises. I watch him go, just for a moment, and then cross the last dozen or so feet to the truck and hoist myself up into it. It's mostly already done, just a couple more crates and then some smaller cardboard boxes deeper in. I go for the smaller ones first, on the off chance that Jason finishes up with the thugs before I have to move the larger crates. I'm sure I can do it, it just might be a little messy when they hit the floor from me shoving them off the back of the truck.

Mostly, the hardest part is the continual need to hoist myself back up on the truck after I've dropped a box off, which makes me wish that these morons had bothered to grab one of those automatic unloading things that rises and falls to get crates, and people, from in the truck to on the floor. But, since apparently they were just lifting them with some people in the truck and some on the ground level, I'm stuck with doing all of it by hand too.

You know, this might be one hell of a lot of guns, but I don't think these people were anything near professional. A professional gang would have one of those things, wouldn't they? Or at least rely on _something_ apart from the idea that your thugs have decent back strength. It's just a more reliable method. It's just _basic_ efficiency.

I drop off the last of the smaller cardboard boxes in the stack I've got going, and then sigh and head for the larger crates. Alright, now I _could_ just shove them off the edge of the truck bed and hope for the best. Or, I could do this the better way and try _not_ to break the crates, which is a lot cleaner. I really _should_ do that second one.

I push the first crate to the edge of the truck, hanging partially off, and then slip down to the floor. I test the weight once, curling my fingers around the bottom edge and lifting slightly, before deciding it's something that I can handle. I get a better grip on it, sliding my right metal arm underneath so it takes most of the weight, and then slowly pull it off. It's _damn_ heavy, but it's not too much, not quite. I carefully carry it over to my pile, and ease it down to the floor. It's a good thing that my metal fingers really can't be squished, because they definitely end up under the edge of the crate for a moment before I get them out of the way.

I repeat the process with the second crate, and then, since the truck is now suitably empty, head over to Jason's growing collection of thugs. As promised, they're all unconscious and bound at wrists and ankles. I take a glance around for him — he must be behind something, because I don't immediately see him — and then shrug and grab one of the thugs by the collar so I can carry him over to the truck. After the crates, these guys don't feel like much of anything.

Jason meets me on my trip back for a second person, as he's dumping his own person into the pile. He pauses, and then snorts. "Here, I'll help you move this pile over there. I can finish up collecting the rest of them after."

"You don't need to," I counter, even though that definitely sounds better than dragging every one of them over there by myself.

"But I'm going to," is what he comes back with. "Come on, Original. Just go with me."

Yeah, not going to complain.

We move our pile over to the truck, and then Jason veers off to hunt down more of them while I get to work moving them up into the truck itself. It's slow work, especially since after every three of them or so I have to climb up into the truck itself and shift them towards the back so I have more room, and Jason keeps adding more to the pile. But, eventually, he apparently hits the end of what we took down and stays to help. He lifts them up to me, where I'm standing in the truck, and I shuffle them back far enough I can take the next one. And so on.

Not going to lie, it's a relief when we get the very last one stowed away in the truck.

I jump down, grimacing. "Alright, not a big fan of this kind of cleanup. Kind of ruins the high of the fight."

"Right?" Jason gripes, reaching up to shove the doors shut. "That's why I usually only go after bigger fish; these small ones aren't bad enough to really justify just ending them, and the cleanup is a bitch in places like this." He latches the door, and I follow him as he circles around to the front of the truck. "I mean, if it's just drugs or something you can call the cops and leave them all unconscious to get picked up. Minimal effort there. But if it's stuff like this? Weaponry, guns? Gotta make sure none of them get their hands on anything deadly before the cops get here."

I lean against the side of the truck as he climbs halfway into the driver's side and retrieves the keys, then step up close as he gets back out. He lets me shut the driver's door and then crowd him back against it, even though at this point he's got several inches on me and a fair amount of shoulder width. I'm really starting to hope I hit a growth spurt pretty quickly, he's starting to look noticeably bigger and it's a little weird. I raise my metal hand up to push underneath his jacket, running my fingers along the slice of skin visible between his helmet and where the armor on his neck starts. He tilts his head into my hand.

"Still worth it to see you in action," I say with a smirk, and he gives a quiet snort.

"Against these lowlifes?" He reaches forward and grips either side of my waist, and I can hear the grin in his voice even though I can't actually see it. "You should see me in a _real_ fight." I see it the second he goes rigid, head jerking up, and then he's yanking me down to the floor as something embeds itself in the truck door where his head was half a second ago. Then he's pulling me up and to the side and I go with it, unable to see whatever the hell is at my back.

I _do_ see the flame that scorches the area we were just in though, as Jason none too gently drags me down the length of the truck and then sharply to a halt. I spin, finally granted enough time to twist my head and take a look to scan for whoever the hell is attacking us.

Costumes, is the first things that registers, as my gaze sweeps across the warehouse, and then it narrows down to the fact that there are three of them. Two to our right, and one to the left. All three male, all three in matching costumes themed grey and green, and with full hoods. If they weren't built a little differently, and didn't each have different symbols sewn into the costumes over their hearts — kanji that I can't read — it'd be pretty impossible to tell them apart.

"That was not a fucking _invitation_ ," Jason snaps, and I see him reach for his weapons. I prime my arm as the three of them spread out, boxing us in against the side of the truck.

"Red Hood," the one in the middle calls, "you've caused our employer a lot of trouble." His voice is faintly accented, definitely Asian, and I can hear Jason give a soft snarl where he's partially at my back.

"I've caused a lot of people a lot of trouble," he answers. "You want to be a little more specific?"

"Arsenal." I stand a little bit more at attention as the middle man speaks to me. "This doesn't concern you. Leave now and we let you walk out of here."

Jason's shoulder touches mine, and I can see him lean in out of the corner of my peripheral vision. "Left, strength," he whispers, straight into my ear. "Middle, breathes fire. Right, just a skilled human like us."

I shift my stance a little bit, considering the positioning of the three and figuring out which I'm best suited to go after. The human is probably my best bet, honestly. I can deal with metas most of the time, but I know Jason is better at it and probably a more efficient choice. I do feel a _little_ guilty that I'm pretty much going to leave two of these three to Jason, but I know he can handle himself. He doesn't look particularly worried, and he told me their powers instead of telling me to take their offer, so he's probably not actually concerned that they might be enough to kill both of us.

"Is that right?" I ask, in the subtlest way I can think of to tell Jason which direction I'm planning on heading. "You know, I think I'll pass. Red's kind of my partner, and I like having him around."

I can almost feel Jason's grin, but I do get to see the reactions of the assassins — that's what they _have_ to be. A slight tension, traded glances that tell me they weren't prepared for someone else to be in the way and willing to stay and fight. Good, advantage to us. Outnumbered maybe, but they were planning on going after just Jason, and planned for that. Apparently they missed that small memo that I've been working with him recently.

To _their_ credit, it only pauses them for a moment. Then I see the shift as they start to move, and I snap a quick, "Down!"

Jason obeys without hesitation, dropping to one knee next to me, as I activate the laser on my arm and spin in a quick half circle, forcing the three of them to drop to similar crouches — or in the normal human's case, leap into a midair flip — to avoid it. Jason is following my laser just about the second that it leaves my arm, chasing it towards the one in the middle who breathes fire. I disengage the fire and follow his lead, spinning myself to the right and lunging at the human. He comes down from his flip before I reach him, into a half of a crouch that then turns into a forward lunge to meet me. I can hear a grunt of impact behind me, a slight pained noise, but it doesn't have the distortion of Jason's helmet so I ignore it as I meet my own opponent.

I realize about half a second before it would have been too late that he's got small blades hidden between his knuckles, and yank to the side of a punch that might have shredded through my armor and right into my stomach. Instinct says to raise my arms as I turn sideways and draw away from the punch, but I push that away and keep my hands low so I can grab his arm instead. I brace my legs against the ground and pull to throw him, and unlike when I spar with Jason I don't keep the strength of my arm in check. He doesn't make a sound, but he goes flying a good four feet or so through the air before twisting enough at the landing to roll and turn towards me. By that point I've drawn my gun in my left hand and am in the middle of pulling the trigger to put a bullet in his head.

Scary fast reflexes let him dodge to the side, and I follow him with the gun, squeezing off shots that _should_ hit, even with his momentum, but that he seems to be tracking and dodging even as he's circling around me in a low run. It's pretty seriously disturbing, and if I hadn't seen people like Batman do nearly the same thing I'd probably be questioning if this guy is really a normal human or just pretending to be. Instead, I just grit my teeth and get moving, keeping him at as much of a distance as I can, at least for now. I spare a single glance to the side to check on Jason — seems to be alright, though combat that close with someone that has enhanced strength might not be a good idea — and then return my entire focus to my fight. Right in time to be too slow to fully get out of the way of some kind of metal shuriken-like thing.

It knocks my gun from my hand, sends it skidding off to who knows where, and my mouth curls in a snarl. I let the assassin close the distance, hold my ground until he's close enough that I can duck underneath his razor blade punch and brace my fingertips against the ground so I can lash out at his stomach with my left foot. It forces him back a foot or so, and I grab one of the smaller knives stored in my costume as I get back to my feet and go after him.

Jason's been teaching me combat with a knife, and I might not be as good as him yet but I can more or less hold my own. Besides, my metal arm is enough of a weapon on its own, I don't necessarily need anything else. The gun is just handy to have.

He draws back, and I'm aware enough to realize that he's letting me chase him across the concrete floor of the warehouse but there doesn't seem to be any tactical advantage so the _why_ escapes me. I still have to dodge the small blades that he keeps flicking towards me; an _absurd_ number of them.

"How many knives do you _have?_ " I finally ask in a snarl, as what has to at least be the eleventh one goes flying through the air towards the side of my throat and I pull out of the way. His hands still look to be full of them.

He doesn't respond.

I chase him up on top of a stack of unmarked crates, slicing at his ankles. He jumps to avoid it, and I coil my right arm back and then unleash it, slamming my metal palm into the crate. It's moving as he lands, and he topples backwards along with it. Which is about the same time there's a large thud of impact, of bending metal, from my right. My gaze jerks to the side, and finds Jason falling from being, apparently, thrown into the side of one of the trucks. There's a fairly large dent where he hit, and the two other assassins are advancing on him. The fire-breathing one is parting his mouth, hands curling and arms splaying wide in preparation for what just might roast Jason alive.

Reactions kick in before I can consider it, and I grab my mini crossbow from my left hip, clicking into the expanding, hardening foam bolt and firing the _second_ after I'm sure it's aimed right. Jason is just raising his head from where he's landed — face down, on his chest with his left hand braced against the floor — when the bolt hits its target. It slices neatly into the fire-breather's open mouth, and he reels backwards as the compressed foam bursts from the bolt and into his mouth. His friend jerks in shock, head snapping my direction, as the fire-breather jerks and collapses underneath what I know is the foam expanding down his throat.

"Breathe _that_ , bastard!" I call across the distance, and Jason's head turns my direction as he pushes himself up to his knees.

Then I see him stiffen, and he shouts, " _Arsenal!_ "

The warning comes about a second too late, and I only have time for a startled jerk as _my_ assassin's hand comes down on the back of my neck and yanks me sideways and down. He's strong, and without warning I don't have the time to brace and resist him as he slams my head into one of the crates near the bottom of the pile. My world bursts into sharp pain for a moment as my vision blacks out, and then the world snaps back into color and sound as my face presses down against cool concrete. Then there's a hand at my throat, forcing me down on my back, and I drag my eyes open and stare up at the masked face of the assassin.

In the background I hear Jason give a wordless shout that sounds like _fury_ , as my assassin's fingers tighten their grip. I suck in a breath while I can.

"Killing heroes is a _messy_ business," my assassin hisses, probably too quiet for anyone but us to hear, though the pulsing ache of my head might be screwing with my hearing. I manage half a snarl, and reach up with my metal arm to see if I can get his hand off my throat. When he gives me a hard shake, which sharpens that headache to the most painful thing I can remember in recent memory, my arm drops right back down to the floor and I let out what I think is something between a grunt and a groan.

Then I'm getting dragged up, to my not-real-useful feet, and the hand around my throat slides around to grip the back of my neck instead.

"Messier than what we're getting paid for," the assassin spits, and starts to pull me off somewhere.

My vision is swimming a little bit, and he's dragging me a whole lot more than I'm actually walking, so it's supremely difficult to try and figure out where he's pulling me. At least, difficult up until we reach whatever the hell it is — I've closed my eyes to try and at least control the nausea digging at my stomach from the disorientation — and he throws me forward. My side smacks hard into what feels like metal, and I tip over whatever the hell it is and fall a couple of feet hard onto my back. It's cold, and it feels like more metal that I land on, at least according to the feedback of what my shoulders and flesh arm are touching.

I pry my eyes open in time to see a flash of light, and then hear the slam — definitely metal, but cushioned by something at the edges? — of the lid closing and locking me into what I am pretty damn sure is a box.

I close my eyes again, partially in a vain attempt to quell the nausea, and partially because it's black and I can't see anything _anyway_ , but mostly so I can think back to what I've seen of this warehouse and remember what was in it that I could be shut into.

The box is metal and colder than it should be. Long enough that my knees aren't forced into a bend, so maybe six feet, and the width — I reach out with both arms, and touch more metal after about a foot in both directions — is roughly four feet. What does that match in my memory?

A freezer box. _Fuck_.

There were a couple rows of freezer boxes near the back of the warehouse that, yeah, seemed kind of like they'd be a good place to store a body. We weren't here for them, so I didn't look too closely, but I remember that they existed. I'm in one of them. Oh, that brings up a whole new list of problems.

I coil and lash out, driving my metal arm up into the lid. I hear the impact, feel the reverberation, and _god_ the noise it makes is loud, but it doesn't give. What the hell are these made of; titanium? It's not a great angle, and there's not enough space to build up the momentum I'd need to do some real damage, but normal metal, even if it's steel, should have given at least a _little_. Luthor gave me one hell of an arm.

Next I reach up, bracing both hands against the lid and then pushing upwards. I round my back, bring my legs up for leverage, and _push_ with everything I have. Something creaks, but the lid still doesn't give. I collapse back to the bottom, shoving out a breath and then _immediately_ stilling what air I have left in my lungs.

Freezers like this are airtight, they're built to seal shut when they close down to keep things relatively fresh. That means — _shit_ — that I have a limited amount of air, and a limited amount of time before I suffocate. Oh, that's not good. Especially since this lid is apparently made of the world's strongest metal or something, and will _not_ give no matter how much strength I pour into it. So what are my options?

I carefully regulate my breathing, trying to ignore the ache in my skull, and reach out with my flesh and bone hand to feel along the edge where the lid meets the rest of the chest. My metal hand won't be able to feel the slight delicacies of anything that might be able to help me, any discrepancies in the design, mechanics of a lock, or something similar. That's my best bet in how to get out; anything in here I can take apart to weaken the structure of it, or maybe even get the latch open and get out. Other than that, I have to hope that Jason is good enough to take out the remaining two assassins on his own, and get over here in time.

I know I killed the fire-breathing one, which just leaves him up against strength and the normal human with way too many knives. Alright, the normal human shouldn't be a problem for him. He's trained with the League of Assassins, he has to be used to going up against that kind of fighting style. The strength one might be a bit more of a challenge, depending on how strong he actually is, but I'm sure Jason could take out that one too. Together; that's the tricky part.

That depends on how well they work together, if getting thrown against that truck did any actual damage to Jason, and if Jason's done any damage to the strength one already. Then again, I've never actually seen Jason in a real fight, where he was fighting for his life. _And mine_ , says a small part of my mind that I shove to the side. The people we've gone up against before have been decently skilled, but not enough to really pose a threat to both of us combined, maybe not even to him on his own. I've seen him focused on fights, seen the deadly efficiency he's capable of that's tempered with just a hint of flair from his time as Robin, and I know I haven't seen all of it yet.

I _think_ he'll be alright. I think he'll win. But in time? Hard to say without knowing how much time I actually have left, and those aren't the kind of calculations I'm good at. Give me an invention, or a shot I need to make, and I could rattle off the information without hesitation, but calculating the air left in a closed box, minus what I've already breathed? That's a bit beyond me.

I focus on my hand, slowly running it along the metal and resisting the urge to vent any of my rising frustration. Nothing. I've got nothing. All of the hinges and such for the latches must be on the outside, and the insulation to make it a freezer chest — it is getting pretty _cold_ in here — must mean that it's a double-layered box, and the screws for the connections are in the middle of the two layers. It's kind of an unintentionally perfect prison, even though I'm kind of convinced that there's something about the lid that isn't right. There has to be something on top of it, or holding it down, or something like that. If there wasn't something extra on top of the lid's natural strength, I would have been able to break it open. I'm sure of that.

I hear what I'm almost sure is a muted gunshot, and then not even a dozen seconds later an equally muted explosion. I swallow, and try not to imagine the fight out there.

I remember. The assassin said that killing heroes was messy, and somehow I qualify in that list. I'm not sure who really recognizes me as a _hero_ anymore — I'm not even sure I count myself as one — but I guess if it means that killing me is more trouble than it's worth, I'll count myself lucky. That does mean that even if they win it's unlikely they'll leave me in here to suffocate, my human assassin said, in less words, that they weren't getting paid enough to deal with the fallout of killing a hero. Silver lining.

It's probably my imagination — and a side effect of anticipation and apprehension — that the air starts to feel thinner after a bit. Then again, it could really _not_ be. I take a second to shake my head and curse the fact that I didn't start counting when I got thrown in here. That way I'd know for sure how long I've been in here, and how likely it is that the air really is getting thinner. As it is it just feels like a long time, and trapped time always feels like so much longer than it really is. I can't even make a decent guess how long it's been.

Finally there's a loud scraping sound from right above me, a thud that I think actually shakes the chest a little, and then the lid pops open. I wince at the bright light, but force myself to focus enough that I can recognize the backlit frame as Jason's.

"You alright?" he asks, his voice rough and definitely _without_ the modulation from his helmet.

As my eyes adjust I can see that his helmet is gone, there's a trail of blood down the left side of his face, and he's holding his right arm at a careful angle. There are other bloody spots on his jacket, but I can't tell if they're his or sprayed on him from whatever he did to the assassins. He definitely looks a little strained; it's the set of his jaw and the angle of his right shoulder that gives it away.

"Fine," I manage, "just a headache. Are _you?_ "

His mouth curls in a tiny smirk, and he lifts his left shoulder in a shrug. "I'll heal."

I push up, getting my arms underneath me so I can sit up to get out of the chest. Jason shifts back a bit, my gaze flicks past him to see the rest of the warehouse, and everything promptly goes to hell.

"Behind you!" I shout, at the sight of the enhanced strength assassin barreling towards Jason's back. He's bloody, clothes and skin burned away from most of his right side, but there's a wild fury in his eyes that looks like the kind of berserker insanity that comes from knowing you're going to die.

Jason whips around, already reaching to draw his knife with his left hand, but the assassin gets too close, too fast. Both palms hit Jason's chest dead center, and he snaps backwards. The edge of the chest digs into his legs, he topples backwards, and I reach up to catch him but not fast enough to stop the back of his head hitting the open lid with a nasty sounding crack. He falls in on top of me, tense and therefore not unconscious, but not really moving either. The assassin reaches forward for the lid, and I react more than think. I duck down — getting brained by a metal lid, wielded by an enhanced strength meta, is not my idea of a good time — and drag Jason down with me, and then twist and fling out my metal arm to catch the edge of the lid as it comes down.

The noise that I hear when it crunches down on my metal fingers isn't a good one, and the fact that the feeling they scream back at me is _pressure_ isn't good either, but the lid doesn't latch shut and I count that as a win. I move to shove it up, to get both of us _out_ , but then something hits the top of the lid and I'm suddenly really glad that I can't actually feel pain through that arm, because I've never felt that much pressure on those fingers before. There's a second thud, something in my fingers crunches in a way I _really_ don't like, and Jason starts to move. His head comes up, twisting towards the sliver of light that I'm sacrificing my hand for, and in that sliver I can see his mouth curl in a snarl even as his eyes widen.

He sits up, bracing his back against the lid, and I can see the white flash of his teeth and the tension of his muscles as he _strains_ against whatever the hell is on top of the chest. After a few moments he expels a strained breath and stops pushing, and I see his eyes turn towards the sliver again.

There's a moment of silence, and then I _stare_ as he shudders, eyes squeezing shut. His teeth are obvious in the darkness, and so is the way they part so he can spit out, "He won't live. Not for more than a few minutes." Then he's stretching, twisting on top of me to reach down and fish something out of one of his pockets.

"There's air," I point out. "We're not going to suffocate." I swear Jason _flinches_. "Are you alright?" I ask, actually worried now. My fingers can be fixed, and I'm sure that however he's hurt it _will_ heal, but something isn't right.

"Fine," he snaps, and one of his elbows jams into my side as he straightens back out over me. I give a small rush of air, but don't complain about the sensation. "Shut up for a second."

I want to argue, I _want_ to stop him and press the fact that he does _not_ seem alright, but instead I press my lips together and force myself to respect his words. The thing in his hand lights up, and I realize it's his phone as it illuminates his face. There's something in his expression that I don't like, something strained and angry that I don't quite recognize. It's not quite like the way he looked the night that the Pit took him; that was just fury. This is something very different.

He hits a few buttons and then tucks it in next to his ear as the light from it goes dim. The sliver of light from the slightly open lid is still slicing across his face, letting me see his eyes and a bit of his forehead. Until he closes his eyes and slips down out of the light, his forehead ducking down into my shoulder. From that close I can just hear the ringing of the line, and whoever he's calling.

Then the ring stops in the middle of its tone, and a familiar voice asks, " _What is it?"_

I can hear Jason swallow, and feel the rush of his breath against my shoulder as he answers. "Hey, Red. Went along with Arsenal on that job you gave him; might have dragged some assassins with me."

My clone spits out a curse, and I can hear the worry in his tone. " _Are both of you alright?"_

"More or less," Jason says, noncommittally. "Look, we took them down but I didn't pay attention and—" A harder swallow. "We're trapped; freezer box. There's something really fucking heavy on top of us and Arsenal's got his hand wedged so the box is still open but neither of us are strong enough to get out from this angle."

"Hey," I butt in, "this is _not_ your fault, Jason. _I_ got knocked in here first, remember?" I can both hear and feel Jason's disbelieving snort.

" _Shit. Alright, I'm on my way. Still at the address I gave you?"_

"Yeah." Jason's answer is short and clipped, and I raise my hand to touch his shoulder. This time I _know_ he flinches, I can feel it.

" _I'll be there as soon as I can."_ Then my clone's voice sharpens into a commanding tone not that much different from the one I've heard Oliver use occasionally. " _Hand the phone to Arsenal,_ _ **now**_ _."_

For some reason, Jason doesn't argue. He doesn't even complain. He just shifts, and then the phone is pressing into my palm. I raise it to my ear, as Jason's head buries itself a little further into my shoulder. "I'm here," I say, in place of any kind of actual greeting.

" _He close enough to hear?"_ my clone asks, and I make an affirming noise. " _Alright, then you keep your mouth shut and let me talk, Jay."_ Jason tenses a little bit, but doesn't answer or argue. " _I will get there as_ _ **soon**_ _as I can, Arsenal, but you need to keep him relatively calm until I do. He's claustrophobic, and if you don't help he's going to go into a full blown panic attack. When Jay gets scared he gets violent and there is_ _ **not**_ _room for you to get out of the way. You keep him calm, however you have to. Got it?"_

Oh _fuck_. Yeah, that would explain why Jason's been weirdly high strung and simultaneously unresponsive to my touches. Oh, this could get really bad, really fast.

"Got it," I manage, past the whirlwind of my thoughts. My clone hangs up without another word, and I let the phone drop down to the metal next to my head. "Jason?" He's very still, but at his name his shoulders jerk a little bit, his breath bursting out against my shoulder. "Woah, Jason, it's alright. Arrow's coming to get us, we can breathe, there's light, and I _will_ get you out of this." Another sharp burst of air against my skin, and I close my eyes for a moment just to _think_.

What's the best way to get through to Jason? When the Pit was affecting him I got through to him just by being patient, by not pushing, but this is different. This gets worse by the second, and just waiting for Jason to pull himself together is _not_ going to work while we're in this situation.

"Jason, _look_ at me. Come on, look at me." I lower my left hand to touch his head, to run my fingers through the short hairs at the base of his skull. "Just raise your head a few inches, Jason. Come on."

Slowly, _painfully_ slowly, he does. His left arm is braced up above my outstretched right shoulder, his right down by my side, and I can feel the muscles of his neck rigid as _stone_ underneath my hand. He raises his head enough that I can see the faintly green glow to his eyes, bright in the darkness, and I force myself not to give any reaction but to slide my hand down to his cheek and jaw. He's not steady, and his jaw is clenched underneath my touch, breath coming hard through his teeth.

"Jason, I want you to focus on me. Just me, alright?" I carefully stroke my fingers down his skin, holding his gaze. What's the _best_ way to get Jason to do that? How do I get him to forget the box, and that we're trapped, and whatever memories are in his head that are messing with him? Well…

Jason visibly shudders, and I can feel his legs clench in on either side of mine. "Roy," he grinds out, and there's an edge to his voice that sounds like desperation.

Oh. That might work.

"Kiss me," I order, and I can see him startle.

His jaw loosens enough that he can ask, "What?" and doesn't immediately stiffen up again. I try to keep it loose by running my fingers along it in small strokes, sweeping my thumb in longer ones.

" _Kiss_ me," I repeat. "I want you to lean down and kiss me, _focus_ on every touch and every bit of my warmth." He's staring at me, and I run my hand back into his hair and tighten my fingers, loosely gripping it. " _Focus_ on the sound of my voice, my breathing, on the feeling of my hand." I shift my legs, spreading them just enough to bring Jason's attention to the fact that they're between his thighs. He draws in a sharp breath. "On _me_." I give a small tug to his hair, watch his eyes flicker closed and his lips part for a moment. "Now lean down and _kiss_ me, Jason. _Now_."

He shudders, and then does what I've ordered.

His lips meet mine, and I ease my fingers out to stroke through his hair in time with the pressure of his mouth. I keep my touch gentle and our kiss equally so, running my fingertips along his scalp until he shivers again. I'm not sure whether it's because of me or because he's still freaking out, but he feels a bit less tense and his breathing seems a bit steadier, so I hold him close to me. Hold him close and down against me, pressing my hand at the back of his head, his neck, finally sliding it down onto his back to bring his chest against mine.

"Focus," I murmur against his lips, and he makes a sound in response that's half desperation and half some kind of pain. He pulls a fraction of an inch away, and I flick my eyes open. "Jason, talk to me. If this isn't enough you need to tell me what is, understand me? I need you here, with me."

He shoves out a breath, and then a slightly hysterical laugh escapes his throat. "I'm not— _Fuck_. You can't; there's nothing you can do. I should have— _God_. I should have told you that this could happen, I should have _warned_ you. I'm going to lose it, and _hurt_ you, and god I—"

" _Jason_ ," I snap, demanding his attention. It works. "Is there _anything_ you can think of that could keep you relatively calm, or at least slow things down? I am _not_ judging you for any of this, alright? We've all got our triggers, and you weren't under _any_ obligation to tell me yours. Just let me help you."

He stays frozen for a moment, and then shakes his head. "I don't know _how_ ," he whispers, the green glow _too_ bright in the darkness. "Roy, I don't— I wish there was something, _anything_ , but there's just _not_."

"Alright," I agree, sliding my fingers up to the back of his neck. "Just answer a couple questions for me then, okay?" His head jerks in something like a nod. "Does me touching you help?" is the first question, and I feel Jason twitch, shudder.

"It… It grounds me." It sounds like enough of an agreement to me, so I start to move.

"Come on, Jason," I murmur, as I squeeze the back of his neck and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Carefully, with his help, I move my legs out so they're spread around his hips instead, so I can raise them to firmly press against the outside of his legs. "Head to my chest," I halfway order, "just like we're back on our couch, alright? Like there's some terrible movie on that we're not paying attention to." Slowly, he eases down and rests on my chest. He's still tense, but it's a start.

His right arm presses in against my side, his left hand rises to press flat against my other side, and his head tucks down against me. I slide my fingers up his neck and into his hair, starting up the soft stroke that I always do when we're like this. Ordinarily I'd have my other arm loosely wrapped around his waist, but with it trapped by the lid that's just not possible. I tilt my head down and to the side, to press my lips to the top of his skull just once.

"Does me talking help?" is the second.

I can feel him jerk into another shudder, and this one doesn't go away. It only eases down to a persistent shivering that's at least fairly minimal. His left hand digs into the armor covering my side, and I let the hand in his hair get stronger, to call his attention to it. "Something to focus on," he manages, his voice tight and strained, and still a little bit hysterical sounding.

I nod, press another kiss to his hair, and close my eyes. "Alright, then just listen, alright, Jason? I don't need you to do anything but listen to me; that's more than enough. I'm here with you, I trust you, and we'll be just fine when this is over. Understand me? We'll be alright." I swallow, resist the urge to flex my hand and try to push the lid up, and tighten the press of my legs to either side of his hips. "So just _listen_."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6! You know what's in this chapter, guys? _Backstory._ Yeah, that's right. I made up backstory for this and now you finally get to hear it. Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: more claustrophobia/panic attack, and messed up backstory to do with Joker.

* * *

 **September 14th, 22:10**

* * *

I don't know how long we're there. I don't know how long I stroke my fingers through Jason's hair and along his neck, or how long I tell him random stories or pieces of information; whatever comes to mind as long as I'm not silent. I don't know how long I feel him shake against me, his breath coming alternately slow and measured, or hard and fast, against my chest, and his hand clenches and releases against my side. I just know it's a while.

By the time I hear footsteps, and there's the same loud scraping sound from earlier, my voice has gone slightly hoarse. My right shoulder aches from being strained up and out, and it's starting to twitch and spasm like any other strained muscle.

I cut off when I hear the footsteps, and twist my head to look at the sliver of light between the lid and the side of the chest. I catch a flash of red, and then there's the scraping of something large, right above us, before a loud thud. Jason freezes at the initial sound, even his trembling stopping for several long moments. His head rises at the thud, and his eyes are glowing green, his hand is digging _painfully_ hard into my side, but I swallow back any noise and just deal with it. I tighten my grip on his hair, close my eyes for a moment at a second thud, and then release my grip and sooth my fingers down the back of his neck.

The lid flips open, and I wince at the bright light. Jason's hand shoves down on my chest, driving the breath from me with a grunt, and he yanks up and away from me. I can see well enough to watch him all but clamber out of the chest, with not much grace and even less attention to the red-clad figure standing to one side. My shoulder jerks as I push up, watching Jason stumble away from the chest. He's half bent over, left arm clutching at his lower right, and visibly shaking. When I look up to my clone, he's watching Jason too.

He's dressed up in his Red Arrow costume, mask included, but I don't need to see his face to recognize the angle of his brow as worried. I've had a bit of practice seeing that face in my own reflection; different people we might be but our faces work the same way.

"What happened?" he asks, as I climb out of the chest. Jason's making a beeline for one of the exits, and I start moving before I think to answer. I don't know how far he might run if he's left alone right now, or when I might find him again.

"Assassins," I answer, following Jason slowly enough that I don't close the distance between us. He really _doesn't_ want me at his heels right now, I'm sure of that. I keep my voice quiet enough that he won't hear unless he's really listening. "Three of them, here for him. I took out one, the second cracked my head into a crate, dumped me in that chest." My clone's at my back, so I can't see his reaction, but I doubt it's anything but worried with a side of angry. "He took out the other two, came to get me out. One wasn't quite dead, pushed him in with me and threw whatever the hell those things were on top of us. Got my arm in so we didn't suffocate, but…"

I slow for a second, and my clone comes up beside me as I shake my head. My left hand clenches, and it makes a kind of disturbing metallic grinding noise but somehow my right does too.

"You kept him calm at least." I glance to the side, at my clone, and snort.

"Does he _look_ calm?" I ask, with a flash of my teeth and a snap to my tone. "Where the hell is he even going?"

"Outside," is the immediate answer. "He wants to see the sky, it's the only way he'll stop feeling trapped. Roy, look. I've _seen_ Jason get stuck inside something like that before. Cheshire got him out, but it wasn't pretty." I look over, a demand to tell me on my tongue, and he seems to read it before I even start to get the words out. "He broke most of his fingers, tore off a few of his own nails, bruised himself all to hell, and by the time she got him out he was practically comatose. Even after he came back to really being conscious, we couldn't get near him without him threatening to tear our throats out with his teeth. That? That _is_ calm considering the situation."

Jason gets to a door and shoves it open with his left shoulder, and I speed up just a little bit.

"Claustrophobic?" I ask, snapping the word with all the importance it deserves.

"His story," my clone answers instantly. "I know why, but Jason would never forgive me telling you details like that. I didn't know until the last time I saw him get trapped, and I'm pretty sure he only told Cheshire that he had 'problems with small spaces' to get her to hurry. That's really understating it."

I push out of the door, my clone at my heels, and throw my gaze around the alley to find Jason. Not that he's hard to find. He's half collapsed against the wall about twenty feet to the left of the door, head tilted back and legs half curled beneath him. My clone moves to go after him, and before I can even think to question it I jerk my right arm out and hit him across the chest to stop the advance. He recoils with a gasp, staggering back a step, and his mouth tightens.

Before he can say anything I hold up my damaged hand in the universal 'stop' symbol, though my index finger remains stubbornly half curled down. "You need to leave," I say, keeping my voice quiet enough Jason couldn't possibly hear.

" _Excuse_ me?" he says, with a laugh that's complete disbelief.

My jaw tightens for a second, but I force it loose. "He trusts me," I spit out, "and it's one hell of a lot more than he trusts you. I can probably calm him down now that we're out; I can at _least_ get him to let me take a look at his injuries. He will _not_ do that if you or anyone else is here so you need to _leave_. Thanks for the rescue, I'll keep you updated on how he is, but you need to go."

My clone looks just a little shocked, but he's not trying to barge past me so that's an alright first step. " _Trusts_ you?" Again with the disbelief. "Jason doesn't trust anyone enough to let them touch him when he's this out of it. Roy, he'll _hurt_ you."

I straighten up a bit, and meet the white gaze of his mask evenly. "I've watched him fall asleep," I offer, lowering my arm. "A few times now. While we were in that chest he said my touch kept him grounded, that my voice was something to focus on. I can do this. I can get him home."

 _That_ expression I do recognize as shock, and then my clone swallows and backs off a step. "Alright. Just… You contact me the _second_ he's alright again, and if I don't hear from you within twenty-four hours I _will_ get Cheshire to help me track both of you down. And be careful. _Promise_ me you'll leave him alone if you doubt even a little bit that you're safe."

A promise I'm _not_ going to keep, because being around Jason is never really 'safe,' but whatever makes my clone get the hell out of this side parking area. "Promise. Now _go_."

He hesitates for another second, but then nods and turns to jog off. I watch him until he's out of sight, and I'm sure that he's not going to double back, before turning and heading for Jason.

The first thing I do is circle around so that I'm not at his back, so I'm approaching from the side where he can see me. His head twists down towards me, green eyes pinning me down with so much focus I stop in my tracks out of pure instinct. He stares at me for several long moments, and then those eyes shutter closed for a fraction of a second and he nods. Permission.

I slowly get closer, as he watches me, and circle a little farther until I'm directly in front of him. Then I sink to my knees, not close enough to touch but close enough I could if I reached out, when he'll let me. He's still trembling, and there's a desperation to his eyes that unnerves me a bit, but he's watching me pretty steadily despite that. I let myself lean against the wall, shifting my metal arm so it's trapped between my weight and the unforgiving concrete, and I can see the flicker of sharp gratitude through his expression. It's part of what Jason told me; when he's affected like this the world around him is reduced to what is or isn't a threat.

My arm is a threat.

"Hey," is what I let come out of my mouth, followed by, "it's just me, Jason." I let my left hand rest palm up on my knee, and lean my head against the wall to subtly bare some of my throat. I can see his gaze flick to both things before he gives one harder shudder and his mouth curls into a snarl that bares his teeth. "Clone's gone," I murmur, and there's a slight ease to his snarl that I read as more gratitude. "Told you; whatever you need from me, you've got it. Figured a good first step was getting rid of him for now. You want me to stop talking?"

His head jerks in a shaky refusal, eyes flickering shut for another moment.

"Want me to _keep_ talking?" is my second question. That gets me an equally shaky jerk of a nod. "No problem. Can I keep asking you yes or no questions?" Another nod; another flicker of his eyes. "I'm not angry with you at all, so you know. I don't blame you for any of this, you didn't have to tell me anything, and I sure as hell would never expect you to keep calm through getting triggered, you understand me? That is _not_ your fault, Jason."

He shudders, and then leans into the wall as a sound leaves his mouth that only sort of sounds like a laugh. His eyes squeeze shut, and then he's moving in a jerk that _nearly_ makes me flinch. His right hand snaps out towards mine, and his fingers curl unerringly around my left hand, even though his eyes are still closed. It's a fairly hard grip, and I give a gentle squeeze back.

"You didn't hurt me. You stayed calm when I needed you to, and that's the important part. Can you look at me, Jason?" His eyes flick open, and I squeeze his fingers. " _That's_ the important part. You don't have to tell me anything, now or ever. I wouldn't ask you to do that, like I know you'd never ask me to either." I carefully raise his hand — slowly so that if he even _twitches_ away from me I can stop — and lower my head to press a small kiss to his knuckles. His fingers tighten a little further, but he doesn't pull away. "Are you ready to go home?" I ask softly. "The couch? A movie, drinks, whatever you want. Or we can just sit on the roof for a while, if that's better."

I can actually see the green glow to his eyes fade a bit, and the snarl eases as he nods. "Yes," he manages, voice cracking in the center of the word. Then he's shuddering again, and his head presses against the wall as his outermost leg pushes out, heel digging at the pavement. " _Fuck_ , you don't know—" He cuts off, gives another half of a laugh, and then shakes his head.

"I don't have to," I intervene, pressing a second kiss to his knuckles. "I know it's a hell of a thing to ask, but just trust me, Jason? I'll get you home, and whatever you need past that, I'll make sure it happens." I carefully keep his gaze, watching his expression to try and figure out some kind of actual meaning to it behind the lingering fear, anger, and desperation. It's not an easy thing, but I'm pretty decent at reading people's expressions, and right now I don't think much of Jason's training is actually working. At least, I can read a hell of a lot more than I thought I was going to be able to.

It might be a terrible thing, but there's definitely a part of me that is distantly thankful that Jason's fear makes him easier to read. It's _terrible_ , and I know that, but being able to read _anything_ that Jason is thinking is close to a miracle. It just sucks that the miracle comes on the heels of guns and a locked, dark, enclosed space.

What is it that gave Jason claustrophobia, anyway? Was that something that he's always had — that feels unlikely, considering he was Robin — or something that he gained because of what happened to him? His death, rebirth, and training after that. It seems like a more likely option, but that doesn't mean I'm not wrong. There's nothing about Jason online, nothing serious anyway.

I don't know his full name, and I don't know who the Bats are, so nothing comes up on that front. Then there's the fact I know he was killed by the Joker, which has a small article or two but again, nothing large. What there is, is hidden deep within the results and hard to find. Lastly the name; Red Hood.

Lots of things come up on the Red Hood, but nothing I can pinpoint as Jason. It's all older, back when that was a gang, not just a single person. Jason's been _very_ off the grid since he came back. What he pulled with me is maybe the highest profile job he's pulled since then, and that only because the survivors will be able to describe what he looks like, and that I was working with him. Not many people know me either, but there might be enough to actually get my name, and not just a description. Even if there's no name, I'd bet there's a record of me in the police database somewhere, and my description will match up with that and _give_ them a name.

Sometimes it's a bit of a pain in the ass to be mildly famous.

Jason twitches, his free hand curling to a fist and then easing out again. " _Please_ ," he begs, with another crack in his voice. "Get me out of here; I can't— _Please_ , Ro— Original."

I swallow at the almost screw up, and press one last kiss to his skin before carefully straightening up and easing away. "Alright, you got it. Stay with me, Jason. You even _twitch_ away and I'll stop, but if you're too shaken to walk I'll need to support you. Understand that?"

He shakes as I slowly rise to my feet, never letting go of his hand. Then he gives another jerky nod and meets my gaze, his head tilting back to make that happen. "Got it. Do what I can, just—" Another cut off as his eyes squeeze shut and his head shakes, and I take it as consent.

I brace myself, and then give a slight upward tug of my left hand, still joined with his. His gaze snaps up, and then he tightens his grip on my hand and pulls himself to standing. It takes a backwards lean for me to support his weight; he's all muscle. I just need to get him over to the bike we took over here, and then get him to hang on long enough to get him back to our shared safe house. After that, Jason can do whatever he wants to do. Whether that's following me inside to let him curl up with me on the couch, or retreating to his room, or heading up to the roof and staying beneath the stars. I have no idea how bad his memories might be, or how badly they've affected him.

He cries out as I lift him, and it's enough of a shock that I'd have let go if his grip would allow it. He collapses against the wall, on his feet but a long way from steady, with his fingers so tight around mine I'm actually a little worried they might get damaged. It hurts like a bitch, but even as my mouth parts to say something Jason's left hand clutches at his upper right arm and his head tilts back, chest rising in shallow gasps for air.

" _Fuck_ ," he spits, with an edge that still sounds way too much like desperation.

Right, _shit_. Jason's injured, and I don't know what might be under his jacket but I know he's been holding his right arm at a weird angle. A _careful_ angle. I shouldn't have used that one to pull him up, I should have pulled my hand away from his and reached over to his left hand instead. Stupid mistake to make, especially since I have no idea how badly his arm is hurt, or if I could be doing more damage to it by putting weight and pressure on it.

Still, his fingers are wrapped around mine. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, and his shoulders shaking, he's still holding onto me. He hasn't gotten violent yet either, which is a very good thing. Even injured, I don't know if I could take Jason. I've still _never_ seen him fight for real, against an opponent he actually thinks is worth his skill.

I swallow, watching the way his teeth bare and his jaw clenches down, reading the _pain_ in his expression. "Is it broken?" I ask, and his eyes pry open and look over at me. Still green, but not as bright as they were in that chest.

"Don't think so," he grinds out, through that barrier of teeth. "Maybe?"

I carefully pull a little bit at the hand he has captive, and after a moment he lets go and slowly drops his arm back to his side. He keeps his lower arm pulled inwards though, almost wrapped around his stomach but not quite that obviously defensive, and I wince. "Shouldn't have pulled you up like that; my mistake."

" _Our_ ," he corrects in a snarl that surprises me with its viciousness. " _Our_ mistake."

"Our," I echo. "Got it." I make sure he's looking at me, make sure he's paying attention, before I slowly shift forward. He lets me step closer, up to his side, and he looks a little wary but he doesn't pull away when I wrap my left arm around his back. I carefully grip his waist, angling myself to take a lot of his weight against me as I slowly pull him off of the wall. He makes a low, pained noise that makes me wince again. "Just to the bike, alright, Jason? That's as far as you've gotta go, after that all I need you to do is hang onto me." I get another of his jerky nods, and I turn us the direction of our half-hidden bike.

He's not real stable, but I'm not really hurt so taking some of his weight is a lot easier than it could be. I get him across the parking lot, and leaning against the bike, before something occurs to me.

"Hang on for just a second, alright?" He nods, a little more steadily this time — he's mostly stopped shaking — and I snag my phone and take a couple steps away. Dialing my clone is easy enough, and I raise the phone to my ear as I turn my attention down to the mess of my metal hand. I carefully flex it, faintly feeling the sense of something damaged. My fingers still mostly work though, even if they make that disturbing grinding noise when I clench them, and my index finger refuses to straighten out all the way. Considering how much weight I think was on top of them, and how they were pinned, that's really not so bad.

I'll have to get it fixed, or fix it myself, but it looks like it's a fairly easy repair job.

" _Arsenal; how's Jay?"_

I glance back, finding his eyes closed again and his head hanging a few inches. "Better than he was," I settle on answering. "Just about to take him home. Look, would you call the cops for me? We finished the job you gave us before the assassins showed up, and there's a truck in there full of thugs." I wince, and tilt my head back as I clarify, "Mostly injured ones. It kind of slipped my mind."

I can almost _feel_ how badly my clone wants to yell at me, or at least start up a lecture, but all I hear is a long, forcibly calm breath. " _Yeah, you got it. Keep me updated on our friend."_

He hangs up, and I tuck the phone away and turn back to Jason. He looks up at me, like he can feel me watching — wouldn't surprise me — and watches as I walk back over to him. He definitely looks calmer now, even though he's also clearly in a fair amount of pain. Considering the last time that I saw Jason really show pain was when he had a bullet in his side, the fact that he's showing it now is not comforting. He must either be pretty out of it — too out of it to control his reaction like he normally would — or in enough pain that his control isn't good enough. Neither option is good.

Just to make sure, I pause in front of him for a moment. "Is there anything I need to treat before we head back?" I ask quietly, and his brow furrows down a little bit like he really _hadn't_ thought about that.

He hesitates, shifts a little bit, and then shakes his head. "It can wait."

* * *

 **September 14th, 23:54**

* * *

Jason's arm _isn't_ broken, thankfully. There's definitely some wrenched muscles, and something in his elbow grinds faintly in a way it really shouldn't, but everything feels right to the touch. I'm not a fantastic medic, but I know enough to tell if something is broken. Jason shouldn't fight for a while, at least not seriously, but he'll be alright.

Apart from his arm, there's a gash at his scalp that bled a lot, but wasn't deep or serious enough to warrant actual stitches. Shouldn't scar. A row of slices right through the armor on his left hip that look like my knife-wielding assassin punched him with those hidden blades, and some nasty looking bruising that's mostly localized on his injured arm, the right half of his back, and his left ankle. There are other scattered spots, localized impacts that look like they were probably grazing blows from the one with enhanced strength, but those are smaller and much less serious looking.

I carefully help Jason down off the kitchen table — he was collected enough by the time we got back to our safe house to insist on just treating the injuries — and he leans into my side, head ducked down and teeth clenched together. Given what I know of his injuries — nothing's broken, I'm pretty sure — I'm really impressed he's standing at all, and maybe a little worried that he's actually showing pain. Alright, a lot worried. I really just want him to lie down and not move until he's healed, preferably all the way.

"Do you want something for the pain?" I ask quietly, keeping my left arm carefully around his waist, but not with enough pressure, hopefully, to aggravate his bruising.

He shakes his head, then gives a razor edged smile that's also pretty seriously bitter. "Can't. Anything strong enough to affect me will mess with my head, and— Well, obviously I'm in a fucking _great_ mental state already. Can't risk that."

I ignore the secondary remark. "Alright. You should have someone professional look at all of this though, Jason. I can do first aid but this is pretty far past that, and if there's any kind of internal bleeding—"

"There's not," he says, cutting me off.

I stare at him for a second, and his gaze turns towards me slowly, warily. "How do you know that?" I ask quietly. "It's not something to fuck around with; that could _kill_ you."

He gives a small shrug with his left shoulder, and his gaze flicks to the floor. "I know what it feels like." The answer is soft, edged in pain and something that makes his eyes shutter closed for a fraction of a second. It's enough for me to turn a little bit towards him, trying to meet his eyes.

"Jason?"

"I know what internal bleeding feels like, alright? I'm _really_ familiar with it and—" His eyes close, and then he spits out a quiet, " _Fuck_." I try not to move when he looks back over at me. "Get me to the couch."

I _really_ want to question, to get _some_ kind of indication of what's going to happen once we're over there, but instead I bite my tongue and just nod instead. I tighten my grip around his waist, and shift us that direction. He keeps pace, even if it's a slow one and he's limping somewhat. His ankle's probably sprained on top of the suspiciously hand shaped bruising, but I'm not going to try to get him to do anything with it tonight. Tomorrow, I'll try to press him to let me wrap the ankle, and put his arm in a sling. I know he won't like it, but he might do it anyway for the sake of actually healing. That, and the fact that it's _me_ asking, might be enough to get him to go against the parts of him that won't like being restrained even a little bit.

I ease him down onto the couch, and he pulls me down with his left arm right next him. He pretty much manhandles me into the position he wants, which seems to be our classic thing of me on my back, and him lying on my chest. It's reversed though, so he can lie on his left side instead of his right. His head is still pressed down over my heart, though he's kept his left arm out instead of wrapping it underneath my back. I guess he doesn't want to trap his only fully working arm.

After a few moments of silence, I swallow and carefully raise my metal hand to touch his back. I try to keep my touch away from the patterns of bruising, as much as I can. "You don't have to tell me anything," I murmur, and he snorts.

"Yeah I do," he contradicts. "If we're going to keep working together, if we're going to do _more_ than that…" He shifts, tilting his head a little further down into my chest. "You deserve to know what happened."

I draw in a breath through my teeth, watching the play of muscle in his back and the top of his head. "Jason, you _don't_ have to do that. Especially not tonight."

The sound he makes almost sounds like a snarl, but whatever it's classified as it's _definitely_ a warning. "Shut up, Roy," he snaps. "Right now I've got the words so just… Just shut up and let me talk."

I do it. I close my mouth and swallow back the rest of my words, carefully trailing my metal fingers down his back. I raise my other hand to his hair, trying to give him as much comfort as possible because I can't _imagine_ telling Jason what being captured by the Reach felt like. Or what it did to me. If he really _wants_ to tell me what's happened to him, what the Joker did and how the rest of the world's fucked him over, I'm not going to stop him.

"I've got all kinds of issues," Jason says into my chest, his voice quiet but more than audible. "Right now, let's just…" He takes in a shallow breath, and the fingernails of his left hand scrape across the armor I never got around to taking off.

Jason mostly stripped down, so I could deal with the scattered injuries all over him, and he's just got a pretty basic pair of sweatpants on now so there's nothing pressed against the stitches on his hip. I'm still dressed up in my suit as Arsenal, minus most of my weapons, my mask, and the singular glove. I needed to be able to feel the injuries with my actual fingers, but I didn't want to take the time to strip down like he did when there was still work to do. Fixing Jason came before my personal comfort.

"Just the basics right now," Jason finishes, and I recognize the way his shoulders relax as by force, not natural. He's _really_ good at forcing himself to relax; must come with the advanced combat training. "My last few days as Robin, there was a mission from the Team. I was leading the group I was in, not my first time but I wasn't really practiced at it yet, and everything was going fine. We were about to head home, and this group of villains comes down on our heads out of nowhere, swinging power around like it's nothing. Joker grabbed me in the chaos; my stupid mistake, I let myself get driven away from the main group and he drugged me. Woke up in a warehouse, all my tools stripped and pretty solid restraints on me. He beat me pretty badly, drew it out like it was a game. Even if anyone had gotten to me in time, I don't think I would have survived. Not for long anyway, and the chance of walking again, of _ever_ going back to being Robin… Not likely. No one did, so it's a pointless thing to think about. Joker set up a bomb; I wasn't in any condition to disarm it by the time he decided he was done with me."

He shudders, back rising in a sharp breath that eases out much slower. I try not to put pictures to his words, because if I do I don't know if I can just sit here and listen. "I watched it count down. Hoped, for a while, that someone would track me down, but it didn't happen. Nothing to focus on but the pain, until the bomb went off. Didn't feel much of that." Jason's fingers scratch over the armor again, and I can feel him tense just a little bit.

"Waking back up was… worse. Six months later, rough estimate by Talia, I woke back up in my own grave. Healed enough to move, but not much more than that. Nothing on me; I dug my way out with my fingers and the buckle on the belt from the suit they put me in. I remember nearly suffocating, but I got out. I just moved, walked until I collapsed, and the police picked me up and took me to a hospital. After that it's mostly blank, but somehow I ended up on the streets for a pretty long time, and then Talia found me. I've got a flash or two, a random impression here or there, but mostly I don't remember anything until she threw me into the Lazarus Pit. Apparently the damage to my skull was pretty bad; I wasn't much more than a shell living on half-memories and instinct."

He's quiet for a long few moments, and softly I encourage, "Is that the end?"

His next breath comes out a little shaky. "More or less. The Pit is its own hell, and it's _always_ in my head, but you already know most of that. Wiped away all my scars, but left me with this white streak in my hair. Claustrophobia is the big one, the one with a name, but I've got problems with my hands getting bound behind my back, crowbars, certain people's laughs, and," he gives a short bark of laughter, "of all the _fucking_ things… You know those digital display clocks? Yeah, those too. Other than that it's small things, _random_ things. Half the time I can't even predict what might trigger a memory. It's such bullshit."

I very carefully stroke my hand through his hair, and slide my metal hand up his back as smoothly as my damaged fingers will let me. "Yeah, that's the kind of shit they don't tell you about trauma. It's not just the obvious things that set it off."

He gives another bark of laughter, shoulders tensing beneath my hand. "Be nice to know that _before_ you get it, wouldn't it?" he asks, with a strained edge. I make a small sound of agreement, and his shoulders ease out again. It almost feels natural this time. "I don't want any pity," he says quietly, but with a slight snarl to his words. "It's just something that happens, alright?"

"I know," I murmur, tilting my head down as his tilts up to look at me. "I wasn't planning on pitying you." I lift my shoulder into a shrug, and put a little more pressure into the fingers on his scalp as I keep his gaze. "I've made… some pretty terrible decisions, and irrational ones, I'd be pissed if you pitied me either."

He turns a little more towards me, bracing his left arm across my chest to push himself up about a foot, and I let my left hand rest at the back of his neck as he studies me. It feels like a long time that he isn't doing anything but watching me, his eyes fixating on seemingly random points on my face and lingering there. I really _want_ to squirm, to ask what he's trying to figure out, or just to say _something_ , but I don't. I let him study me, feeling the rise of his back as he breathes and letting my gaze rest on his eyes.

Finally he relaxes, and his mouth quirks into a smile as he leans forward and down into me. I close my eyes as he kisses me, and it's sweeter now than it was back in that chest, where it was mostly desperation and no real attraction. This is soft, it's chaste. At least, until Jason makes a rumbling sound in the back of his throat and pushes down a little harder. I let my hand slide up the back of his neck, getting a loose grip in his hair and meeting the desire I can feel behind the press of his mouth. I'm the one that opens my mouth a touch, just enough that I can raise my head and get his bottom lip between my teeth. It's something I've done before, even if we've never gotten any farther than shared kisses and barely wandering hands.

The noise he makes when I give a gentle tug at it is a low groan, and I can feel the pressure of his fingers scraping over my armor. Then his whole body curves in a wave, rolling in against mine. I give a gasp — releasing his lip on automatic — at the same time that he stiffens and gives a tight groan that's definitely pain.

His forehead lowers to press against mine as my eyes flick open, and I study the tension to his closed eyes as he gives a breathless laugh. " _Fuck_ , yeah. Bad idea." His eyes flick open, and it's a nice bonus that they're visibly blue again. Still more green than they should be, but not glowing, and I can see that he's calming down. He stares down at me for a moment, and then leans down to brush his lips across mine for a brief moment. "Stay with me tonight?" he asks, quietly.

The second I take to respond, because my breath is caught in my throat, makes him pull away a few inches before I can swallow away the lump. "Yes, of course."

"Not _for_ anything," he clarifies, sounding just a touch wary. "I couldn't even if I was in a healthy mental state, but…" He swallows, and then his gaze flicks down and to the side, avoiding mine. "I'll sleep better if you're there. I think."

I give the tiniest of tugs to the hair I've got between my fingers, just enough to get him to look back at me. Then I lean up, tightening the muscles in my neck and back so I can hold myself partially upright to kiss him. Soft, and with a _very_ gentle sweep of my metal fingers down the length of his spine. Which I end by spreading that hand across the small of his back. It seems to relax him at least a touch, if the soft noise that he gives into my mouth is any indication. I don't _want_ to pull away, but the memory of that groan of pain makes me.

"Of course I'll stay." Then I give a snort, and relax back down into the couch. "And if you think that sex is my only motivation for being near you, you clearly haven't been paying attention."

That gets me a laugh that sounds a lot more genuine, and his mouth curls into a smile. "Uh-huh; is that right?"

I can't help the way my mouth curls up at the right corner, or how my fingers loosen in his hair and stroke up through it. "Yeah," I answer softly, "it is." It's probably a dumb thing to say, especially with Jason still somewhat messed up from earlier, and injured, but I can't help it.

Jason isn't anything I thought I'd ever want — male, and I definitely didn't picture myself with someone, well, like _him_ — but that doesn't mean that every moment with him, even the rocky ones, hasn't been great. Maybe he's dangerous, sometimes unstable, and definitely damaged at least as much as me if not more, but he's also honest, thoughtful, and miles more gentle than I ever thought he would be. He treats me like a normal person, he's never condescending or cruel, and he trusts me. I know that I trust him too, no matter how much my clone might warn me against it.

I watch as Jason freezes up for a second, his eyes widening. Then I can _see_ the last of the green fade from his eyes, leaving only that slight tinge that's always there, and he makes a quiet, pleased noise. "Yeah?"

I lean up again, to brush my lips against his for just a _moment_. "Yeah," I murmur when I pull back. "I guess you can take that however you want to."

"Right now," he says, in a low rumble of a voice that does all _kinds_ of interesting things to my anatomy, "I'll take it as you volunteering to get me to my bed, strip out of your costume, and join me underneath the sheets."

I force out a slow breath, trying to ignore the guttural reaction to his voice because I _know_ that Jason is hurt too badly to actually do anything right now. "That's completely fair," I manage, pulling my hand out of his hair because if I don't I'm going to tighten my grip and pull him in for another kiss. I close my eyes for a moment to center myself, and then open them again as I feel him push his arm against my chest.

He's grimacing, teeth clenched and eyes shut, but he gets himself up to sitting between my legs. I follow him up, my metal hand still lingering on his waist. I know there's not much I can do about the pain he's in, but it still makes me _want_ to do something. Well, I guess…

"Is there anything I can do?" I ask, and his eyes flick open.

He shoves out a breath through his teeth. "Just get me to the bed, you've already done as much as will help." I spread arnica over his bruises, stitched up the slices on his hip, and cleaned out both those and the slice across his forehead, but I guess apart from that… The only thing I can think of would be painkillers, and Jason's already said that the ones strong enough to do anything for him would fuck with his head too. I can see why he doesn't want that happening.

"You got it," I say quietly, and carefully maneuver around him to kneel by the couch; the easiest place for me to get my arm around his back to lift him. "I can help you walk, or carry you. Preference?"

He gives a shake of his head and a snort. "I'll walk, thanks." Not surprising.

I carefully get him to his feet, doing my best to support him, but also not put too much pressure on any of his injuries. It's an awkward balance, but I think I manage well enough. I at least manage to get him to the door of his room without too many expressions of pain on his part, and only hesitate a moment before I open that door. I've seen glimpses into his room once or twice, when I happened to be near it when he went to bed, but I've never actually been inside. I reach inside to flick the light, and then angle us a bit sideways to get both of us through the door without any limbs hitting the door frame.

It's neater than I expected. Not perfect, there are a few things out and not everything is _just_ at the right angle, but the bed is made and everything is definitely in its place. It's a lot neater than my room, actually. I fully admit I can be a bit of a slob when it comes to where I store things; I call it organized chaos, it helps my brain work. It's smaller than the master bedroom he gave me, but it still feels nicer to me. I don't know why, and it can't just be the neatness, but there's definitely something that just feels more high quality than mine. It's probably not the desk with the open laptop either, or the two open cases with packaged weaponry and matching ammo that are next to four other closed cases of varying length and width.

I guide him over to the bed, getting him down on the edge of it before I pull my arm away and face him. I take another glance around, and then give a small, crooked grin. "Want me to put my suit somewhere specific?"

He matches my grin, as he braces his left hand on the mattress and shifts back. Slowly, and somewhat painfully, but he's moving. "So long as you clean it up in the morning, it's fine."

I wait until he's gotten underneath the covers, on his left side, and apparently on his prefered half of the bed, before I straighten up and raise my hands to my suit. My right one only somewhat cooperates, so mostly I strip left-handed. I'm _really_ aware that Jason is watching me, and that his gaze is lingering on the pieces of skin that I leave exposed, but I try not to let it affect me. Just because he's watching doesn't mean I have to make it a show, or that I should be self-conscious. Maybe I'm not the same kind of muscle that he is, but I haven't hit the growth spurt I know I'm going to, so that could change. He's not that much older than me, the year and change just gives him a bit of an advantage when it comes to height and weight. For now.

I catch it when Jason's gaze flicks down to my right arm, where I'm mostly letting it hang by my side. "Your hand?" he asks, just loud enough for me to really hear him.

I shrug, as I pull my legs up and take my boots off, one at a time. "Fingers are damaged, but mostly still functional; doesn't look like anything I can't fix on my own. If it is, I'll suck it up and see if my clone can point me towards someone else. Red Tornado or someone like that. Luthor is kind of the last option."

"Good." I only hesitate for a second before I push the bottom half of my suit down, leaving me in just briefs. Jason's gaze flicks down briefly, following the lines of my legs, but then comes back to my face. He gives another small grin, and there's a relaxed heat to his eyes that feels more lazily playful than anything else. "Now come join me."

I get the pants off of my ankles, and only backtrack long enough to flick off the light before I take his invitation. It's more feeling than sight that gets me back to the bed, and underneath the covers. I edge over until I can feel the heat from his skin, and then cautiously reach forward with my upper left hand until my fingers graze across his skin. Slowly, my eyes adjust, and as they do I shift closer to him. He makes another of his soft, pleased noises as I fit myself up against him. He's lower on the bed, so when he bends his head forward it fits neatly underneath my chin, and his right hand rests on my side. I _very_ carefully rest my hand on his waist in return, mindful of the memory of the bruises up and down the right side of his back, which is definitely the one he's got facing up.

I just listen to him breathe for a few long moments, my metal arm tucked up underneath the pillow beneath my head. Then, after those moments, I tilt my head down to press a soft kiss to the top of his head.

"You know," I start slowly, "I told you that when you eventually told me what happened to you, I would have the same kind of story for your hair, that you told me about my arm." I can feel him shift, and he pulls back enough that I can see the faint glint of his eyes. I let my gaze rise to the shock of white that's one of the more visible things in the room, and raise my hand off his waist to carefully stroke it back along his skull. "You _could_ see it as a reminder of your mistake," I admit, "or a reminder of what's been done to you, and what it's left you with." I stroke it back again, and lower my gaze down to his eyes. "But I don't think that's right."

I can hear him swallow. "Why not?" he asks, with a cautious hint to his voice.

"You didn't wake up with it, Jason," is my answer. "If this was really about your death it would have been then; it wasn't. _This_ , apart from looking unique, and interesting, and really kind of badass, is all about your _life_." I let my fingers graze down the side of his face, lingering at his jaw. "Have you thought about how _strong_ you must be, at your soul, to survive on the streets as long as you did? With no mind, just instinctive response? That white hair isn't about your mistake, Jason, it's about that strength. You _survived_ ; that's what it means."

He's still for a long moment, and then a rush of air leaves him and he leans into me again. "I don't think 'survival' is quite the message you were going for there, Roy."

I slip my fingers through his hair, to the back of his skull, to loosely hold him. "Yeah it is. Look, who knows what brought you back to begin with? All we know is that it didn't do a great job of it. Most people wouldn't have lived through that time on the streets, and even if they did, they sure as hell wouldn't be as relatively alright as you are. Yeah, the Lazarus Pit messed you up, and so did the Joker, but beyond that, _underneath_ that… Most people wouldn't have survived everything that's happened to you, but _you_ did. Believe me or not, Jason, but you're one hell of a lot stronger than I think you realize." I lean down to press another soft kiss to his hair; to bury my nose in it. "That's my opinion."

He's quiet for long enough that I start to think I actually said something I shouldn't have, but then he lets out a slow breath against my collarbone and nudges his face into my shoulder. "Maybe someday we'll believe each other," is what he offers.

I close my eyes, breathing in his scent and letting myself relax. It's not an outright refusal, and really, that's good enough. "Yeah, someday."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7! You know what this is? Yeah, mmhmmm. I hope you enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: anal fingering, handjobs, and very slight exhibitionism. Sorta.

* * *

 **September 15th, 08:26**

* * *

I wake up to the sun in my eyes.

I wince before I'm even fully conscious, and shift down a bit to try and angle myself enough to stop the red of the light burning through my eyelids. That's when I become aware of the heat pressed against my skin, and the hair in my nose. I end up tilting my head up instead, to get the strands out of my nose, and take in a deep breath. There's warm skin beneath my hand, pressed between my legs, and around my chest. Slowly, it actually clicks together what that means.

 _Jason_. I'm in bed with Jason.

I pry my eyes open, and end up blinking a few times against the sun shining through the cracks in the blinds over the window. After my eyes have adjusted at least a little I turn them down. Jason is pressed close to me, his head still beneath my chin but the rest of him significantly closer than it was last night. His left thigh is edged up between mine, torso pressed up near me with only the slightest of gaps between his skin and mine, and I can feel every soft, slow exhalation against my collarbone. His right hand is resting on my waist. It almost mimics the way that my left arm is resting high along his shoulder, my fingers still lightly tangled in his hair.

I've never beaten Jason back to being awake; he's always aware and off of me before I can come back to consciousness. I guess he must have been pretty seriously exhausted.

I shift, tilting my head and trying to straighten up enough that I can see around Jason's head and down his back. I can see some of the bruises on his arm, what isn't hidden behind my own, but not enough to get a real grasp on how he's doing. I just need to get a little farther up...

I manage it. I edge up enough that Jason's head is resting near the center of my chest, and I can curl a little bit around him and get a glimpse down his back. I can only see up to where the sheets are resting, which is around at his waist — must have been a hot night — but what I can see isn't pretty. They're not quite black, but they're ugly colors of dark purple with some spots of yellow around the edges, and it covers more than was apparent last night. Nearly the entire right half of his back is bruised, and that extends about halfway down the outside of his arm too. I kind of wish that I'd been out, and I could have seen exactly what the assassin did to do this to Jason.

The hand-shaped bruises I remember being around his ankle make me think he was thrown into something, so I'd guess that he hit it at an angle, crushing his arm and that side of his back. It's possible the actual injury to his arm, whatever it is that's damaged near his elbow, was something else. A second grab, a punch, a particularly well aimed kick by the one without super-strength... There are a lot of options of how that could have happened.

"Looking at my bruises?" Jason asks, and the low murmur of his voice startles me for a second. I only flinch a little bit, as the hand tangled in his hair clenches on reflex. His hand squeezes down on my waist, and he lets out a slow breath against my skin. "Relax. You moved; I woke up."

I stop craning to get a look at his back, and force my hand to loosen out. Slowly, I shift back to where I started, with my face almost buried in Jason's hair and as much of him pressed up against me as I can get. "Feel alright?" I ask softly, carefully combing stray strands of his hair away from his face.

He gives a soft snort, still sounding fairly asleep. "I'll live," is my answer. He shifts, and I can hear the quiet sound and feel the movement as he yawns. "Pain'll be worse when I start moving," he mumbles.

"Guess we shouldn't do that."

His fingers flex on my waist again, and he makes a rumbling noise that sounds like assent. He shifts a touch closer, and then there's pressure on my waist. I let him press me onto my back, and he eases onto my chest like he belongs there. Going by the soft warmth in my chest, I'm not sure that he doesn't. He's lying on the right half of my chest, a little bit curled since he's bigger than I am, with his head stubbornly tucked beneath my chin. His left arm is tucked close to my side, and his right is half outstretched across my chest with his fingers spread out above my heart. The leg between mine is a bit distracting, especially since there's all the skin of his chest against mine. It might be bruised skin, but it's still warm and nice against mine.

I stroke my fingers down the back of his neck, and extract my metal arm from where it's pinned half beneath my head. My metal fingers replace the others in his hair, and I _very_ carefully ghost my flesh ones down across his injured shoulder and onto the patterns of bruising on his back. He twitches, and draws in a slightly sharper breath, but doesn't pull away from me.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," slips out of my mouth, before I can stop it.

The fingers of his left hand press into my side, and that shoulder lifts in a small shrug. "Shit happens sometimes. I've been hurt worse, and since they were trying to kill me I think I'll be happy it's not worse than this."

I wince, and draw my fingers back from his injured flesh. "But if I hadn't—"

" _Shit happens_ ," he repeats, stronger and louder this time. His head turns, lifting as he uncurls enough that his head is on my shoulder. I turn to look at him, and there's not even a hint of anger or irritation to his gaze. He still looks a bit tired, and there's pain in the back of his gaze, but he's not angry. "Seriously, Roy, it wasn't your fault. If you hadn't been there, I don't know if I would have made it out. Three assassins of that skill, with powers, is stretching it. Even for me."

I close my eyes with another wince. "But I got distracted. I—"

"Stopped me from getting set on _fire_ ," he stresses. "It was a hell of a shot, Roy. Maybe I had the reaction to get out of the way, but it definitely didn't feel like it at the time. I'll take some bruising over some burns any day." He lets out a slightly shaky breath, and the fingers of his right hand tap across the skin over my heart like he's venting excess emotion through the small movement. I open my eyes, and his gaze is lowered somewhere down near my jaw. "You saved me a couple times yesterday," he admits, quietly. "That's—" He blows out a breath, and then shakes his head a little bit as he meets my eyes. "That's not a feeling I'm used to."

"Because you don't need saving, or because no one's there when you do?" My question is quiet, but it makes him wince, and then laugh.

"Some of both." He leans in, and I expect a kiss from the angle he's moving at, but instead his lips brush gently against my jaw. "Thank you," he murmurs.

I chase when he starts to pull away, and I don't go for his jaw. His lips are warm and yielding underneath mine, and I keep them for a few moments. Just long enough to get one of those soft, pleased sounds from the back of Jason's throat. Then I break the contact. "Always," I answer.

His eyes stay closed through my response, and then he gives a low laugh — this one actually sounds real, and not just bitter — and lowers his head against my shoulder. I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth when his teeth graze across my skin, and I look at him in time to catch the mischievous flash of his eyes up towards mine. Then he's shifting, pressing his left arm into the bed and rising up on it so he's half hovering over me. I can hear the hitch to his breathing, definitely pain, but it doesn't stop him from leaning down into me and catching my mouth with one hell of a lot more purpose than our soft ones. His teeth catch my bottom lip almost immediately, tugging once before he lets go and presses closer. His tongue flicks along my lips, and I part my mouth without thinking about it.

My metal fingers clench in his hair as his tongue dips inside my mouth, and my other hand rises to slide along his jaw and then back to grasp the nape of his neck. I pull him down a little harder, giving the smallest of tugs to his hair. It's still enough to make him give a small groan, and I echo it when his right leg shifts where it's between mine. His thigh rubs against my crotch, totally on purpose which I know because I can feel the way his mouth curves in a small grin. It's me that breaks the kiss, turning my head away and squeezing my eyes shut.

" _God_ ," I hiss, flexing my fingers on his neck and trying not to yank him closer and harder and _more_. "You're injured," I press, as much to myself as to him, "and I was hard before you even started, Jason. You're just making me wish you weren't hurt," I swallow, and tilt my head back as I open my eyes again. "Plus a pretty pressing need to go jack off."

Jason makes another of his low, rumbling noises. And then his mouth comes down on my neck, teeth grazing and his lips drawing a section of my skin high beneath my jaw into his mouth. I suck in another breath in a gasp, feeling the dull, minor pain of his teeth against my skin. It definitely doesn't make him pull back, and I tilt my head just a little farther back because _damn_ does it feel good. I almost make some kind of noise of loss when he pulls back about an inch.

"So jack off," he says against my throat, and I stiffen in pure shock.

"What?" I ask. Maybe my voice cracks a little bit. Maybe.

He gives a hum of amusement, pulling back enough that he's hovering over me again, his eyes slightly hooded and warm with desire. "The idea that foreign to you, Roy?" His voice is back in that low rumble. Dark, amused, and way too attractive and sexual for his own good. "I'd _love_ to feel that metal hand work me open, _love_ to feel you in me, but right now it wouldn't be a good kind of pain." I choke just a little bit on my next breath, staring up at him. The curl of his mouth is wicked. "I'll settle for pulling these sheets back and sucking as many marks as I can into your skin while you get yourself off." He gives a low rumble, almost a growl of sound. "For _me_."

I take in a shaky breath, my fingers clenched tight in his hair. " _Fuck_ , whoever taught you that voice should be awarded a damn _prize_."

His smirk gets a little wider. "Figured it out myself." His thigh slides in against me, he gives another of those almost-growls, and my eyes shutter closed for a second at the feeling. "Guess that reward goes to me, Original." His teeth come back down against my throat, and I restrain everything but a single roll of my hips up into his thigh. That's enough to make me choke back a groan though.

"You're _hurt_ ," I try to protest.

"I can deal with pain," he counters, and I drag my eyes open to look up at him as he pulls back. "I can _enjoy_ pain sometimes." His smirk is a step above wicked. It's devious _sin_ and I really don't know how to handle it.

" _Fuck_ ," I breathe out. It's all I can manage. I'm pretty sure all the blood I could be using to make real, rational decisions has migrated south. In fact I'm pretty damn sure that I haven't been this hard in quite a while. I've pretty much kept myself in check around Jason, even when we were sparring.

"Definitely," he agrees. "So kick these sheets down, shove those briefs off, and get yourself off, Roy. Let me watch."

"I—"

My ringtone goes off, and both of us flinch. For Jason, that means he also draws in a shaky breath and eases down onto me with a grimace. "You've gotta be _fucking_ kidding me," he almost snarls. "Who even has your number? Who's _calling?_ "

I turn my head the direction of my discarded suit, and where my phone is going off. Then it clicks in my head. I start to ease myself out from under Jason, but he gives another small snarl and refuses to move.

"Ignore it." I'm really not sure whether it's a plea or a demand, but either way I can't do what he wants.

"Can't. It's my clo—" I cut myself off, swallowing. "Roy. It's Roy. I promised him I'd call when you were alright, and he threatened to send Cheshire after us if he didn't hear back within twenty-four hours."

"We're nowhere _near_ twenty-four hours yet," Jason grumbles, but does shift enough to let me slide myself out from underneath him and sprawl across the bed. I let my front half fall off the bed so I can reach my suit. It takes me a couple of seconds to reach my phone, and then twist around so I'm back on the bed on my stomach and not half draped off of it.

I accept the call and get it to my ear. "Yeah?"

I almost miss the answered, " _Roy?"_ because I can feel Jason's fingers catch the edge of my briefs and pull the band away from my skin.

I twist my head over my shoulder to look at him, and a smirk and heated eyes meet my gaze as he lets the band go to snap against my hip. "Yeah, I'm here," I answer, and then cover the receiver so I can aim a quiet, "What are you doing?" at Jason.

Instead of answering he moves, shifting over on the bed and up to his knees. His left hand braces on my shoulder, pushing it down with his weight as he leans down on top of me. I draw a breath in through my teeth when his right leg settles in between mine, and have to smother a groan against the bed as he rocks it up against me. His teeth settling on the back of my neck definitely doesn't help.

" _Thank god,"_ my clone says, with an edge of desperate relief to his voice. " _Are you alright? Is Jason alright?"_

Jason hums amusement against my skin, and I twist my head to the side and curl my metal fingers into the sheets so they're safely away from anything important. "Yeah," I manage, as Jason's mouth and teeth wander across my neck and then my upper back. "Yeah, I'm alright."

" _Jason?"_

Jason takes that moment to rock his leg up against me again, and my first answer gets lost to a swallow. His teeth pull away, and he must straighten up because his hand pulls away from pressing down on my shoulder. "Jason's good," I get out. "We're both," his fingers hook in the band of my briefs, "good."

I twist to look at him as he firmly tugs my briefs down over my ass, shooting him some kind of look. I'm really not sure if it falls into the category of exasperation, desire, or wariness. Probably some mix of all three. It definitely doesn't stop him from shifting away from me so he can drag them all the way down my legs.

" _How badly was he injured? Anything need a look by a professional?"_

Jason smirks at me as he tosses the briefs away, and it only gets wider as his left hand grips my left thigh and pulls my hips up until I'm on my knees. This time, I'm sure the look I shoot him is incredulous. This one doesn't stop him either. I gasp as he leans down and bites down right at the base of my spine, my head twisting into the bed and my metal fingers tightening around the sheets. I can feel his teeth rolling my skin, the wet suction of his mouth, and distantly a part of me laughs at the fact that Jason is giving me _hickeys_. The rest of me promptly shuts that part up because the better word for them is _marks_.

" _Roy?"_ My clone sounds a little concerned now.

"I, uh… No. Probably not." Jason abandons his spot for a new one, and I grind my teeth together for a moment to not make any _really_ telling noise. "Fairly bad bruising across most of the right half of his back and outer right arm. He says there's no internal bleeding; I trust him." Jason hums approval into my skin, and then bites down a little harder for a second. I force down a curse. "Head wound wasn't serious, just a cut. You know how those bleed. Some more serious slices on his left hip; I stitched those closed." I have to pause to think, because Jason's mouth is dropping lower, and his left hand has slid up to firmly grip my ass. "Probably a sprained left ankle; at least badly bruised. And there's something torn or damaged in his right arm, near or at the elbow. Might just be a sprain there too; it's not broken at least."

Jason pulls the left cheek of my ass to the side, and I shudder and squeeze my eyes shut as he exhales right over the ring of muscle that automatically clenches down at the sensation. He's not really going to— The question gets answered before I even finish thinking it, as Jason gives a soft chuckle that makes me strangle a gasp.

His mouth comes down on my skin about an inch lower, teeth grazing gently against my perineum. I _can't_ strangle back the, " _Fuck_ ," that leaves my mouth. Jason's hand lets go of my ass and pushes my leg out so I'm spread a little further, and I let him.

" _What is it?"_

My right leg trembles a little bit, and then Jason's teeth graze my skin again and instead of actually answering my clone I twist and gasp over my shoulder, " _Jesus_ , Jason that's _sensitive_."

"That's the _point_ ," he says, raising his head enough that he can smirk at me over the curve of my ass.

At the same time, my clone says, " _Oh_ _ **god**_ _."_

Jason's smirk quirks a bit higher, and then he nips at the left cheek of my ass and flexes his fingers around my thigh. "Put him on speaker."

"Are you _insane?_ " I hiss. It's also an interesting discovery that it's really hard to scowl at someone when you're as hard as I am, especially if they're grinning at you over your own ass. "I'm not putting him on speaker."

' _Please?'_ Jason mouths, with a smile that somehow hits the mark between sinful and pleading.

"No." His left shoulder rises in a shrug, and then I have to strangle back a groan as his hand lets go of my thigh and slides between my legs to wrap around my cock. I'm pretty sure that I don't do a very good job of suppressing the noise, and I know I do an even worse job at choking back the moan when he strokes along the length of me.

" _Are you in_ _ **bed**_ _with Jason?"_ my clone asks in a hissed whisper, like he's hiding what he's saying from someone around him.

Before I can answer Jason's plucked the cellphone from my fingers with his free hand, _somehow_. I hear the distinctive beep of it turning onto speaker, and follow it with as much attention as I can as Jason tosses it a couple of feet to our left. It isn't much, because Jason's hand keeps moving. I manage to get together enough focus to reach for the phone, to _try_ and shut it off or at least kill the speaker, but don't get far. Jason lets go of me and then grips my hip with his left hand and somehow manages to get enough force behind him to flip me. My legs are twisted around his waist, but he pretty easily maneuvers them around so they're spread again.

"Hey, Roy," he calls towards the phone, grinning down at me. This time I manage a small scowl.

 _"You_ _ **are**_ _,"_ my clone hisses through speakerphone, sounding just a little horrified.

I let go of the sheets and reach for the phone with my metal hand, but Jason is faster. He snags it and relocates it to down by our knees, too far for me to reach without straining up, and getting through him first. Then he flashes me a wicked smirk and leans back, his left hand hooking underneath my right knee and pulling it up. I have to grasp the sheets again as his mouth finds a spot on the inside of my knee. God that's _sensitive_.

"You're _injured_ ," I manage to get out. "How the hell can you move like that while you're _injured?!_ "

Jason laughs against my skin, teeth grazing, and hooks my leg over his left shoulder so his hand is free. Free to slide lower down my thigh and then back around my cock. I arch a little bit, and bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from moaning again.

"You might want to call back," Jason says, sounding amused as hell but also seriously aroused. "I'm about to give Arsenal either one of or _the_ best orgasm of his damn life, and I don't think you want to listen." I shudder; I can't help it. I _believe_ him, and that stirs a tight coil of anticipation low in my stomach.

 _"Oh_ _ **god**_ _,"_ my clone repeats. _"I can't believe I'm saying this, but be safe. Jason you should know that. Be_ _ **safe**_ _."_

"I'm not a moron," Jason says, still with that amused heat to his voice, "and you are so not qualified to give me the safe sex speech. Just saying. So you hanging up, or listening in? Because I'm not waiting much longer, and he's not going to be able to keep his teeth in his lips for much longer either."

The call ends before Jason's even finished speaking. Then his full attention turns to me. It's both a little scary — I've never had his intensity aimed at me _quite_ in this way — and almost painfully arousing. The stroke of his hand definitely doesn't help with that last bit.

He nips at the inside of my knee, and then nods up towards the corner of the bed. "That end table. There's a bottle of lube in the drawer; grab it."

I follow his indication, getting my gaze up to the shallow drawer and swallowing, _hard_. I have to release my lip to gasp out, "I thought you said—"

"No fucking?" he finishes. Paraphrasing, but I could give about half a shit right now. "Yeah, I meant it. _I'm_ not in any condition to get fucked, or to fuck you. But there's nothing stopping me from slicking my fingers up and working you open while you jack off." I'm pretty sure I stop breathing for a second, and he tilts his head into my leg and gives a smirk. "So grab me that lube, Roy. Let me _fuck_ you in the only way I can right now, so you can come with my fingers buried in you. _Moving_ in you."

"Oh _god_ ," I moan. "Fuck, you have to stop talking to me like that."

"No promises," he answers instantly. " _Move_."

I swallow and obey. I stretch my arm up, wrapping my fingers around the handle and tugging the drawer open. Then it's just a case of grasping inside it — raising my head to actually see requires a lot more concentration than I have right now — until my fingers find something smooth, plastic, and bottle shaped. I lift it, take a glance over to confirm it's the right thing, then shove the drawer closed and hold the bottle out to Jason.

He lets go of my cock to take it, and I can't help the small noise that leaves my throat at the loss of his touch. He gives a soft laugh, and presses a kiss to the inside of my knee. "It'll just be a second," he reassures.

I watch, breathing hard, as he pops the cap on the bottle open and then raises his right arm to hold it. He winces, but there's no real hitch to his movement. I swallow again as he tilts the bottle over his hand, and squeezes some of the clear liquid out onto the fingers of his left hand. It seems like a much smoother motion for him to click the bottle shut again, and then toss it over my leg and somewhere onto the bed. Honestly, my attention is caught by the slide of his fingers as he rubs them together.

"Relax," he murmurs. "As much as you can."

His hand lowers, and I feel the first touch to my ass with an almost hypersensitivity. I jerk just a little bit, and then shudder and force myself to ease. I'm not as good at forced relaxation as Jason is, but I manage to do at least a little bit. It's good enough. I watch his head tilt sideways, his mouth finding purchase on the inside of my lower thigh. That makes me tilt my head back and groan, his mouth warm, wet, and giving me way too many thoughts of what it might be like to have it around my cock instead of sucking marks into my thigh.

Jason hums out something between approval and reassurance as a finger pushes into me. It's easier than I imagined it would be, but that's probably because it's slick with lube. I can't help the way my breath hitches, or how my back arches a little bit off the bed and my eyes squeeze shut. It's an unfamiliar sensation more than a pleasureable one, but the nerves down there are definitely sensitive, and there definitely _is_ pleasure in the slide of movement. I let out a slightly shaky breath, my head tossing sideways. Jason lets go of the skin between his teeth.

"Look at you," he says quietly. "All muscle, all smooth skin…" His teeth nip against my skin, make me jump a little bit. That makes me tense, which makes me clench around the finger in me, which arches my back again and makes me shudder. "Those beautiful green eyes." Jason gives a rough noise, and his teeth scrape against the inside of my thigh. "Look at me, Roy?"

I force my eyes open, drag my head down to look at Jason. He rumbles his approval, and I _nearly_ toss my head back again when there's the gentle pressure of a second finger. Not pressing in, but just pushing at the outside. " _Jason_ ," I get out, my hands clenching in the sheets.

"What's your preference?" he asks, holding my gaze. "Do you like to fuck, or be fucked?"

"I—" I swallow and try and control myself. Try to ignore some of the need, and how hard I am. "I don't know. Only slept with one woman; that was just automatic." To my fourteen year old self, fresh off the joy of being Speedy and high on adrenaline, it seemed natural enough to be on top. The fourteen year old, bumbling girl I was with didn't seem to mind. We enjoyed ourselves, as much as two naive, idiot virgins can.

Jason is a completely different ball game.

His mouth curls in a smirk. "Well we'll try it both ways then," he says easily. "When you figure it out, we can go from there."

That second finger pushes in, and I grit my teeth at both the slight stretch — it's not a burn, just a feeling — and the slide of his knuckles against my skin. "What's yours?" I manage to gasp, and try to keep in mind that if I tighten my metal hand any further in the sheets I'm probably going to rip them.

"I prefer to be the one getting fucked," Jason says, bluntly. "I can go either way though."

I really should have known, considering — now that I actually remember it — everything Jason's proposed that's been even sort of a fantasy has featured me fucking _him_ , not the other way around. "Wouldn't have guessed," is still what comes out of my mouth.

"Most don't." He leans into my knee, scrapes his teeth over my skin, and shoots me a _wicked_ look. "Maybe I like not having to control myself."

That sentence could mean _so_ many things, and I am _way_ too distracted to figure even half of them out. My eyes squeeze closed for a moment at just the implications on the surface. Alright, the first image that pops into my head is Jason arching underneath me. I _know_ he likes the feeling of a hand in his hair; I bet that translates. I bet I could pull his hair and he'd give me one of those breathless, aroused, _soft_ sounds. God I love those.

I shudder when his mouth finds a new spot on my thigh, but I manage to open my eyes again and look down at him. The roll and thrust of his fingers is more obvious now that there's two of them, and they're rubbing inside of me with every stroke. A little different with every push, until they rub over something that lights a dull but persistent pleasure low in my gut. I groan, tilting my head back and gritting my teeth for a moment.

"Oh." My mouth parts as I arch a little bit. "That's new."

Jason gives a soft laugh, his mouth finally releasing my thigh. "Come on, Roy. Reach down and wrap those fingers around your cock for me. Let me see you get off."

I almost unclench my metal hand to do it, but think better of that at the last second. Instead I drag my left hand down, and force myself to look down and come out of the arch so I can see Jason. He's watching my face, but when I wrap my fingers around myself he gives another of his low, rumbling noises of approval. His fingers are moving in slow rolls, and after a second of just enjoying how _good_ that feels I carefully time my strokes to his movement. That nearly undoes me right there.

"Jason, I'm not— _Fuck_ , I'm not going to last."

Approval, again. His fingers speed up, and I fumble for a second before I manage to match the speed. "That's fine," he tells me. "That's _good_. Come undone for me, Roy." His mouth lowers to my thigh, teeth grazing but not biting down. "Let me see it. Let me _feel_ the way you'll clench around my fingers when you come; hear what kind of noise you'll make." His voice drops to a low growl, teeth showing as he orders me to, " _Come_ , Roy."

The heat in his eyes is probably the last straw that tips me over, and I drag in a shallow breath as I feel the tight coil in my gut snap. My back arches, my neck does too, and my eyes squeeze shut as I grit my teeth and _groan_ through the swell and pulse of my orgasm. I can feel the release splash up onto my stomach, but it's a dim sensation next to the feeling of Jason's fingers inside me and his teeth on my knee. It _all_ pales in comparison to the roaring heat and pleasure of the orgasm itself.

I slowly ease down, my muscles slowly liquefying. I let go of my cock, and the slow, lazy thrust of Jason's fingers stops. I twitch and shiver a little bit as they pull out of me, and then give a quiet sound of appreciation as his lips press against the inside of my thigh in a gentle kiss. I drag my eyes open, turning my head to look down the length of myself and to Jason. He's smiling, and as I watch he presses another kiss to my thigh and then looks up at me.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Still with me?"

I swallow, shift and give another small sound. "Yeah," I manage, my voice thick with all the endorphins and the resulting exhaustion.

His smile gets a little wider. "Good." His hand braces on the back of my thigh, and slowly he eases my leg down off of his shoulder and onto the bed. "Want me up there with you?" I nod, and he shifts. Then his face twists in a grimace, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth as his head bows. I'm halfway up on my elbows before I think about it, and before his hand taps my upper thigh and he shakes his head. "I'm alright; I'm fine."

"Liar," I get out, and he snorts.

"Alright, fair point." He gives a soft laugh, and meets my gaze again. "Only hurts if I move my right side. Promise."

I get up to sitting as he moves — slow and stiff — over to my right side. "What you did—"

"Barely hurt at all," he says, reaching in to push me back down, and then following me. "Worth it." His voice comes out a breath, as he lies down on his left side next to me. His nose brushes against my shoulder, and his right hand comes to rest lightly against my waist. "I would have taken a lot worse to see that."

Guilt hits me, curling low in my chest and down into my stomach. "You shouldn't have done it at all." I carefully ease my right arm up, and slip it underneath Jason's head. He leans into my arm, and gives a soft sound as my metal fingers slip into his hair. I turn onto my side to face him, as he tilts his head into my arm and presses a soft kiss to it.

"My choice," he murmurs, and then his eyes flick open to look at me. His fingers flex on my waist. "I get the protectiveness thing, but I promise it's alright." He nuzzles into my arm, and gives a small smirk. "Pain's just a part of my life, Roy. This is nasty, but it's not really so bad. I can handle it."

"Shouldn't have to," I repeat. I roll onto my side, towards him, and reach out with my left hand. He closes his eyes as I trace my fingers across his cheek. "This isn't fair to you, Jason."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't open his eyes. "How so?"

I lean into him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "It's not fair that I get off, you don't, _and_ it hurts you to do that for me. Our first encounter should have been better, it should have been mutual, it—"

"Shut up," he says, opening his eyes with an easy grin. The relaxed, gentle tone is enough to stop me talking, even though the words feel like they should have snap behind them. "You think I care?" he asks quietly, holding my gaze. "Come on, Original, you should know better. Didn't we agree that this wasn't about sex?"

"Not being about sex isn't the same as not being _mutual_ ," I argue, and Jason snorts.

"So make it mutual," he challenges. I stare at him, at a loss for words _or_ actions, and that easy grin stays as he tilts his head into my arm again. "This is just about the only comfortable way for me to lay, and my working arm is kind of trapped." He presses a kiss with a hint of teeth to my upper arm, holding my gaze. "Doesn't mean seeing you like that didn't get me hard." He gives a soft laugh. "You've got a free hand, don't you?"

It clicks in my head, and I stop wasting time. I reach down, slipping my hand beneath the band of his sweatpants. He groans as I wrap my hand around him, his neck arching back an inch or so as his eyes flicker shut. I have to swallow, partially at the expression on his face but also because it's kind of surreal to have a hand wrapped around a dick that's not my own. He's _definitely_ hard, and I take a second to just feel the weight of him in my hand, the shape, the length. I _think_ he's just a little bit bigger than I am, but it's hard for me to tell without being able to see.

Another soft laugh — this one a fair bit more breathless — snaps me out of my consideration. His head turns into my shoulder, half hiding. "Just like it's yours," he breathes against my skin. "Not going to take much; been a while and you're _gorgeous_."

Warmth flushes up my chest, into my cheeks, and I lean down and press a kiss to the top of his head — just to breathe him in for a moment — before pulling away again. I get a little bit of a firmer grasp on him, and try a testing stroke. By the way I can feel his breath catch, it must be at least pretty decent. So I do it again. It doesn't take all that much focus, so it lets me concentrate my attention on the pattern of his breathing, the expression on what I can see of his face, and the way his hips are twitching in small, controlled thrusts forward into my hand.

He shudders, and I flex my metal fingers in his hair. Then my earlier fantasies — thoughts, more accurately — snap back into my head. Before I can think too much about it I tighten my fingers, making sure I have a decent grip despite the damaged ones, and give a sharp tug backwards. The way his neck bends, yielding to my pull without even a token protest, makes my breath catch. The sound he makes — a slightly startled, quiet, _cry_ — knocks it right out of me. I guess I was right.

I drag his head back, baring his throat and pulling his face away from being buried in my arm. "Let me see," I manage, aiming his own words back at him. I can see him swallow, see the way his lips part as he gives a soft moan.

"Figured that out, huh?" he asks, almost completely breathless. Then his teeth grit together, and he gives a thick shudder.

Instead of answering I lean forward, getting high enough up that I can lower my head down to his throat. I mouth across his skin, tasting it and just enjoying the feeling of his skin underneath my tongue, his pulse reverberating into my mouth. It's just a little intoxicating. I pick a spot higher on his throat, underneath the right side of his jaw, and bite down. He jerks a little bit, and then gives a laughing groan.

"Not so hard," he gets out. "You want to— _God_. You want to suck the skin between your teeth and roll it. Same mark, less pain." I follow the instruction, easing my grip on his skin and then sucking it between my teeth. He gives a small noise that sounds like it's good, and follows it up with a breathy, "Yeah, that's right."

I keep it up for a few moments, and then abandon that patch of skin for a new one. Jason swallows again, and his hips push forward into my hand. I can feel the way he breathes in, and recognize it as him preparing to say something. I give a hard yank at his hair, forcing his neck to arch even further, and twist my hand around him at the top of a stroke. His breath comes out as a shout instead of words, and then he's pushing forward against me and swelling in my hand. He shudders, and I can feel the wet warmth streak up along my hand and wrist as he comes.

I ease my grip in his hair and let go of the skin between my teeth, drawing back just enough that I can see the blissed expression on his face. His neck eases back to a more natural bend, and I just hold him in my hand. I don't want to let go just yet. I watch him for a moment as he breathes, slow and deep, and then lean in to catch his mouth in a kiss. I think it startles him a little bit, but after a moment he relaxes into me. He makes another of his soft sounds of approval.

I slowly release my grip on him, easing my hand out of his sweatpants and then holding it just a little awkwardly between us. Wiping it off on the sheets seems like the best bet — they're going to need to get washed anyway, I'm sure — but there's not really enough room between us for me to do that. So I rest my elbow on my own hip and just hold my hand in the air for now.

Jason pulls back a touch, and I open my eyes in time to catch the way his mouth curls into a soft grin. "See?" he murmurs. "Mutual." He relaxes into my arm, and then presses a small kiss to the skin closest to his mouth, near my shoulder. "I could use a shower. Join me?"

I can't help my smile, or the way I lean in and kiss him again. Just for a second, just to vent some of the warmth in my chest. "Always."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8! Have some more of the gloriousness. That is, Jason and Roy getting down and dirty with each other (it might not go the way you're expecting). Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: explicit sex. That's about it.

* * *

 **November 1st, 17:02**

* * *

"Our lives are kind of fucked up, aren't they?"

"Yes," I answer instantly, and then raise my gaze from the top of Jason's head — I'm on the couch, and he's sitting on the ground between my legs — to look over at the other Roy. "Why?"

Jason snorts, leaning his head into my knee and then tapping his fingers across my ankle. It's a not so subtle reminder that I had my metal hand stroking through his hair, and he'd appreciate it if I'd keep doing it. So I do. I get a small, satisfied noise in response, as I gently rub my metal fingertips along his scalp. I can't help the small smile that curls my mouth at that noise, or the soft warmth in my chest that brightens at the fact that Jason is almost completely relaxed against me. If I didn't know better I'd think that he was only partially conscious, or all but ready to fall asleep.

My clone takes a glance down at Jason, and I almost snicker because he looks tremendously confused. Some of that might have to do with the fact he's fairly drunk, and everyone else is quite a bit less so. That part might be my fault, considering every time he saw me do something even vaguely physical with Jason he'd take another drink. It's been too much fun not to exploit, even if Cheshire keeps rolling her eyes or laughing at him every time he does it. Jason hasn't seemed to mind the increased attention, not at all.

I guess I really shouldn't be messing with my clone on our shared birthday, but I can't help it. After a brief shouting match, and then a few weeks of silence, he got used to the idea that Jason and I are together. Honestly, he seemed more upset with the idea that I'd done anything while Jason was so badly hurt than the fact that it was a sexual something. I'm not quite sure his priorities are in the right order, but I guess whatever helps him sleep better is fine by me. Whatever makes sure that he doesn't out us to anyone else — our existence _or_ relationship — is even better.

What interests me is that this _can't_ be that big of a shock. Unless something strange happened, he should have the same sexual leanings that I do, which means the idea of me being with another man shouldn't be weird to him. Just because he ended up with a daughter, and Jade, doesn't mean that he wouldn't have had the same sexual attraction to guys that I do. So it has to either be the fact that it's Jason, the fact we're both still minors, or something to do with him being a clone of me. I'm curious, but not enough to ask.

Jade, where she's perched on the back of the chair that my clone is sitting in, ruffles her hands through his hair and gives a small laugh. "What, sitting here with the man you're a clone of and celebrating a shared birthday isn't enough? How many beers have you _had_ , darling?"

Roy leans his head back, looking up at her. Then he proclaims, in utter seriousness, "We must be attracted to dangerous people." She smirks, Jason gives a second snort, and I raise an eyebrow. "No, I mean, _think_ about it. Two League of Assassins trained people? That can't be coincidence. There's gotta be some kind of preference at play here, right? Some kind of thing about being attracted to danger, or _something?_ "

"Introspective drunk," Jason murmurs, with a soft squeeze of his fingers to my ankle. Then he tilts his head back into my fingers with another quiet, satisfied noise. It's not quite permission, but I take it as a chance to lightly grip his hair and pull his head back against my hips. He comes willingly, relaxing into me and letting his head rest where I've tilted it against my left hip. I carefully ease my fingers out of his hair, and slide them down along his neck instead.

His fingers squeeze my ankle again as I trace patterns between the small bruises I've left on his throat, and he tilts his head just a little farther back to give me more room to work with. I give a small hum of approval.

"And _that_." I look back up from where I got distracted. Roy is staring at Jason with that same confused expression. "Where the hell did _that_ come from? We don't—" The sharp embarrassment that flashes across his face almost makes me snort, but I hold it back. I'm not sure what he's talking about. "We don't do…" He flounders again, and finally settles on just vaguely gesturing with one hand and saying, " _That_."

"Men?" I ask, narrowing my eyes just a little.

"No!" he counters, and then sputters and makes that same vague gesture. Some kind of exaggerated flick of his fingers between Jason and me. "We don't—"

"He's _trying_ to say," Jade breaks in, "that he's a lot more used to being _taken_." She tugs sharply at my clone's hair, and his neck arches in nearly the same way as Jason's does when I pull on his. "Not so much to doing the taking."

Jason gives a burst of laughter, but quickly strangles it down to just snickering instead. My mouth curls into a smirk, as my clone looks back down at both of us. "You keep him on a short leash, huh?" Jason asks, bringing his head up just enough that he can open his eyes and look at Jade. She only smiles, but there's a sharp edge to it that I'd be insane to think didn't mean Jason is absolutely right.

"We're figuring things out," I put into the conversation, taking a glance down at Jason. "This seems to work."

There hasn't been any _actual_ taking yet, not technically, but that doesn't mean we've been abstinent. I tried to keep my hands off Jason until he was healed, but that was kind of a lost cause. He was particularly uncooperative too. We've experimented, talked, he's taught me some of what he knows. I've had my fingers in him, and _god_ does he make gorgeous sounds when it's my metal arm doing any of it. He seems to _really_ enjoy the sensation of it. But we haven't actually fucked. Not yet. It just never felt like the right time to me, and he hasn't said anything either.

But we sleep in the same bed, share food, enjoy each other's company… Jason seems to like very little more than being pressed up against me in one way or another. Of all things, I never thought that he would be a cuddler. Not that I'm complaining.

"It's my preference," Jason admits, with a wicked smirk and a sideways tilt of his head into my hip. "And the metal arm is a nice bonus." His legs stretch out, his back arches for a second, and I _know_ it's for show but that doesn't mean I don't watch. "I don't meet many people who can _actually_ hold me down."

My throat dries up, my clone chokes a little bit, and Cheshire laughs. Jason tilts his head far enough back to meet my gaze, and then gives a small shrug and a second smirk. _That's_ something I hadn't really thought about. Jason's made a few offhand comments about not having control, but I never really thought much of them. They were always in the middle of talks about me fucking him, and really those always took up pretty much all of my mental capacity just with fantasies. I never pursued that path of conversation.

Maybe I should _now_.

"On that note," Jade starts, "both of you should head home." I cock my head a bit in question, but she continues before I can get the words out. "I have gifts to give that are _quite_ unsuitable for young ears."

Jason gives a short laugh, and then straightens up a bit. "Fair enough. You sure he's sober enough to actually appreciate them?"

My clone makes a slightly offended noise, until Jade tugs at his hair again. "We'll find out," she answers.

Jason rocks forward and up to his feet in one graceful slide of movement, and then turns to offer me a hand. His strength lets him pull me up without any apparent effort, and he leans in for just a moment to rest his forehead against mine, before he pulls away again. He doesn't let go of my hand though.

"Got everything?" he asks softly, as his gaze flicks around the room. I nod, and he looks over at Jade and Roy. "Thanks for having us. See you around, Roy, Jade." She smiles, gives a small mocking wave, and then leans down over the back of the chair. I pull my gaze away right before the upside down kiss actually connects.

Jason pulls me towards the door, and I let him until we're both outside and the door to their apartment is firmly closed behind us. Then I turn both of us, and press him back against the wall. I hit a minor growth spurt over the month and a half he was injured, and he evened out some, so I'm only a couple inches shorter than he is. Given my clone's height, I'm sure I'll gain a couple more; might even end up the same height.

"I don't think 'stand outside' was what Jade meant," Jason murmurs, but he doesn't resist when I push my right leg between his thighs, or when my left hand slides up his throat and back into his hair. "Pretty sure the walls are thin enough—"

I cut him off with a kiss, tugging at his hair to force him down far enough I can reach him. He eases into me, his hands coming up to grip either side of my waist as he rocks his hips forward into my leg. His fingers slip beneath the fabric of the sweatshirt, tracing muscle across my sides as I push harder up against him. He gives one of those soft, breathless noises that never fails to spike arousal down my spine, and I can't help reaching forward with my metal hand and pushing it between him and the wall. I might not be able to feel it, but the second noise — a muffled groan — confirms that he definitely likes the feeling of me gripping his ass.

Until he pulls an inch or so back, turning his head a little to the side as he gasps out, "Wait."

I pause as he breathes, and then ask, "What is it, Jason?"

His hands squeeze against my sides, and he meets my eyes. "I want you to take me home," he murmurs. "Take me home and fuck me, Roy. All the way this time." My eyes must widen, because he gives a soft laugh and then leans in to give me a small, chaste kiss. "I'm healed, I have the supplies, and I can't think of a better way to celebrate your birthday than having you take me for the first time. At least to start with."

"To start with?" I echo, and Jason's slight smile turns wicked as he pulls me in by the grip on my side and rolls his hips forward.

"Well we've got _hours_ before the day is over," he points out. "Even after the trip home, we'll have time for at least a few rounds." He gives a small groan through his teeth, giving another roll of his hips as I stare at him. Just a little aroused. Or maybe a lot. "First, I want you to fuck me. Maybe after that I can fuck you, and we can find out which way you like best. I think fucking our way into exhaustion sounds like a _great_ use of time."

I drag him in by my grip on his ass and in his hair, pulling him down into me as I set my teeth against his neck. Just for a moment, just long and hard enough to vent a bit of that image. "You've _got_ to stop talking," I whisper in his ear, "or I'm going to shove you down on your knees right here. I'm already going to play with you on the ride back."

He gives a laugh that's half groan, bucking forward just a little. "Oh, _promises_ , promises. Come on, Roy. Take me home."

I pull back enough to kiss him, and then murmur, "Gladly."

* * *

 **November 1st, 18:09**

* * *

By the time we get back Jason is very, _very_ hard. Mostly because I spent the ride pressed up against his back, with my left hand massaging his cock through his jeans and my mouth against his neck. He still manages to park the bike, and make it all the way up to our apartment before jumping me. He even manages to wait until I've locked the door again.

Then he's on me, tugging at my clothes and pressing me back against one of our walls. His hands are just a little shaky, and I waste absolutely no time in getting his pants undone and my flesh hand around his cock. He moans into my mouth, rocking forward, and then I give a slightly harder squeeze before I let go and push him back a couple inches.

"Bedroom," I snap, and then follow it up with, "and as fun as it is to try and tear your clothes off I'm going to say we go for the more efficient way of just stripping out of them first."

"Agreed," Jason rumbles out, and then rocks into me one last time before letting go and drawing back. I follow him as he heads across our apartment to our shared bedroom — his room — and tug my sweatshirt and the shirt beneath it over my head as I move. I can see him doing the same, stripping out of his shirt and jacket.

None of it gets any more importance than being thrown on the floor in our wake.

It's _really_ tempting to jump Jason the moment that he sits down on the edge of the bed, but I hold myself back to follow his lead instead. He strips off his boots, pants, underwear, and I'm a few seconds behind him but I get out of mine too. By the time I've stripped everything off he's reaching into the end table, rolled onto his side. I fit myself up against his back, sliding my hand around his waist and gripping his cock. He moans, tensing up for a moment and then shuddering. I look down, feeling the heat and weight in my hand, how hard that shudder was, how he's breathing, and what that moan sounded like.

"Want me to get you off first?" I ask, as I nip at his shoulders. "So you can relax and enjoy it?"

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses, shaking just a little bit. Then he laughs. "God, fuck, yeah that's probably a good idea. I'm not going to—"

"Last?" I finish, and press myself against the curve of his ass. "Jay, I'd be _disappointed_ if I spent all that time winding you up and you could still last any length of real time."

He shudders again, and I raise my gaze as his hand reemerges from the end table with the bottle of lube, as well as a black foil square I recognize as a condom. He leaves them on the top of the end table, shuts the drawer, and then presses back into me. Carefully, I take the opportunity to pull away from him and push him onto his back. I get between his legs, hovering over him. I almost reach down for his cock with my metal hand before I remember his earlier admission.

"Were you serious about liking being held down?" I ask, and his eyes flicker closed for a moment.

"Fuck, _yes_. Not many people are strong enough and," he swallows, "it's kind of insanely fucking hot when someone is." There's just a little bit of wariness in his gaze, so I lean down and kiss him to make it go away. Then I take his wrists in my hands and bring them up above his head, wrapping my metal hand around both of them and leaning my weight into it. " _Fuck_ ," he moans, into my mouth. "Roy, please."

I lower my left hand, wrapping it around him again, and don't waste any time setting up a fast, almost rough pace. Just the way he likes it when he's closer to the edge. I muffle his sounds and pleas with my mouth, as much as I love to hear them, and keep my weight leaned into the hold I have on his wrists. He pulls against it a couple of times, but the strength in that arm ensures that he doesn't go anywhere.

Before too long he's bucking into my hand, crying out against my mouth and arching. My hand is low enough, and I'm pulled back far enough, that I don't get hit with any of the splash, but I can imagine him coming across his own stomach. I've seen it enough times to picture that. I work him through the last few moments, until I can feel him start to soften, and then pull away. Just enough to let go of him, and shift to lie at his side while he breathes. I ignore the distraction of my own erection, leaning into him so I can give small, nipping bites across his shoulder and the side of his neck.

After a minute or so he opens his eyes again, and then rolls towards me. I gasp in a breath as one of his hands unerringly wraps around my cock, immediately setting up a pattern just a little gentler than the one I used on him. " _Jason_ ," I moan, my left hand gripping his upper arm. "You don't—"

He cuts me off with a low warning sound, and a particularly good twist of his hand. "I want you in me for as long as possible," he murmurs between us. "I want you to _fuck_ me for as long as you can. I'm resetting the board."

I grit my teeth and shudder, pressing my hips forward. "Oh _god_ , I'm not complaining. Alright, deal."

Jason gives a low laugh. "After I get you off, you're going to grab that lube on the end table." His voice is that low rumble, the one that never fails to throw me a few steps further towards either hard, or right on the edge of coming. "You're going to slick up your fingers, push them in and work me open. Then when I'm ready, and when we're hard again, you're going to slip that condom on. You're going to line yourself up and push inside, and you're going to _fuck_ me until you come. You're going to _take_ me, _claim_ me in the best possible way. That sound good to you, Roy?"

I can only answer with an inarticulate whine, ducking my head forward and down against his shoulder as I try not to tighten my grip on his arm enough to bruise him. Not that he'd mind a bruise or two, I'm sure.

Jason's lips press against the side of my head, and he whispers, "I thought so," in my ear.

"Jason," I plead, not entirely sure what it is that I'm begging for but very sure that I _need_ it. He hums approval in my ear, and grazes his teeth across the shell of my ear and then down to the lobe. He tugs once, gently, and then slips his mouth to right beneath it. I murmur his name like a prayer, breathing in and only smelling him behind the scent of sex in the air. Leather, cigarette smoke, and gun polish. _Jason_.

I shudder and then I'm arching into him and coming hard between us. My forehead grinds into his shoulder, my teeth baring and then parting on a cry I muffle against his skin. He strokes me through it, though much more gently than the tight, fast pace he used to get me there, until I relax against him. Then he carefully lets go of me — I twitch — and wraps his arm around my waist. I make some kind of approving sound that I'm pretty sure sounds more tired than anything else.

"This was a good idea," I finally manage to say, once I've got some portion of my mind back. "First time should be slower." Jason makes a sound like he's not totally sure he agrees with me.

"Last longer," he corrects. "I want hard and fast, but not quick. Slow and gentle is overrated."

I give a small grin, and pull my head up off of his shoulder so I can meet his gaze. "You got it," I promise, catching his mouth in a soft kiss. Then I pull back, rolling so I can reach out and grab the bottle of lube. Jason's just where I left him when I turn back, just a little more relaxed into the bed. His gaze flicks to the bottle, and then he gives a small smirk.

"How do you want me?" he asks, with a suggestive quirk of his eyebrow.

I shift closer, matching his smirk. "Just like this is good," I answer. I press up against him, and then reach down to grip his upper right thigh and pull it up over my hip. It's just a little tricky to get the lube on my fingers, since my metal hand is mostly trapped beneath me, but I manage it. Jason watches me, silent but clearly it's an anticipatory kind of silence. I leave the bottle behind me, and then slide my hand down between us, underneath his leg and lower.

His eyes slide closed as I press the first finger into him, and I shift until I can get my metal arm out from underneath me and down under his head instead. He gives a smile that looks just a little amused, but doesn't comment on my slightly awkward shifting. He just rests his head near my shoulder, and then gives a quiet sound of satisfaction when I slide my metal fingers through his hair. His leg flexes around my waist, and his right arm loops over my left so it can press along my back. He drags me a little closer, and I adjust to let him.

I slide that finger inside him, my other ones comb through his hair, and I want to close my eyes but I force myself to keep them open. I'm not going to miss a moment of his expression. It doesn't matter that I've seen it before, or that I'm familiar with his reactions. He's incredible, and I'm not going to be a fool and lose out on watching this.

"Not too sensitive?" I ask, just making sure.

He shakes his head, and then flicks his eyes open as he gives me a crooked smirk. "Just enough. I'm good." His hand slides up my back, and then nudges me a little closer so he can lean in and kiss me. It's gentle, slow, and lasts through my push of the second finger.

It's not the best angle to be doing this, but I'm not going to give up the sight of his face, and the chance to kiss him, just to have a better angle. This isn't about arousing him, not really. This is something… It's intimate. Calm, gentle, and almost… I hate to use the word, but it feels _tender_. The part of his lips, the lazy roll of my tongue into his mouth, the way it matches the rhythm of my fingers, all of it feels a little too important to just be called sex. I don't know what else I'd call it, but that word feels ill suited to describe this.

Eventually, some time after I've pushed my third finger inside him, he does stir a little bit where he's pressed to the arm I have between us. His hips shift forward, pressing against me, and his hand presses hard between my shoulder blades for a moment. By the time I start to follow him, and that low curl of arousal starts in my gut, he's hard. There's a new edge to his kisses, to the slight press of his nails against my back.

He's more than ready.

I draw back from the kiss, only about an inch but enough that I can open my eyes and look at him. "You good, Jay?"

His mouth curls in a smirk, and he rocks against me in answer. That, before he draws the hand on my back towards him enough that he can reach down and wrap his fingers around me. I suck in a breath through my teeth, then give a low groan when he starts to stroke me. It doesn't take long for him to coax me back to fully hard, and only once I'm there does he pull his hand away. Slowly, I pull my fingers out of him. That gets me a groan to echo mine, and another rock of his hips against my arm.

From there I draw away from him. Only far enough that I can reach the condom still sitting on the end table, but it's away from a naked and aroused Jason, and that makes it feel like a _long_ ways. I get back as quickly as possible, snag the bottle of lube from its abandoned spot in the sheets, and then pause. Jason gives a small grin, and then drops his right side to the bed, so he's lying on his back. That gives me a basic guideline to work with, and I get myself between his legs. Which immediately raise, wrapping around my waist and pulling me in tight against him.

"Ready?" he asks, reaching up to trace his fingers across my cheek.

"I'm so far past ready." It might be a little desperate sounding, but it's true. I've thought about fucking Jason so many times, of being inside and over him. This is literally a dream come true.

I open the condom, and he lets me pull back just enough that I can get it down over myself. One squirt of lube onto my hand that I stroke up and down my cock, and I'm officially ready. Jason wraps his hand around the back of my neck, and I glance down to take myself in hand and line up. He tilts his hips for a better angle, and then I'm pushing inside. Slow, and my eyes clench shut because _god_ that feels good. He's tight, hot, and his nails are digging into the back of my neck in reaction.

"Fuck, _Jason_ ," I gasp, my hips finally meeting his as I bottom out. " _God_ you feel good."

His hand flexes on the back of my neck, and then he pulls downwards. "Come down here," he demands, with just a hint of pleading to his tone. I obey, reaching down to brace my left hand above his shoulder so I can lean down into him. He meets me before I'm even fully over him, pulling me into a kiss and biting at my lower lip. His left hand keeps me in it, and his right slides around my back to reinforce the idea that I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.

I enjoy the kiss, even though I'll fully admit that a large part of my attention is taken up by the fact I'm buried inside Jason. It's hard to think of anything else while I'm in him; I just want to suck marks into his neck, dig my nails into his hips, and _fuck_ him until both of us are satisfied and exhausted.

But I know that Jason wouldn't stall me like this without a reason. He must be adjusting, or getting used to the feeling, or something.

I pull back just enough to get my mouth away from his, and ask, "Need a minute?"

He shifts his head in a tiny nod, or at least that's what it feels like. I haven't opened my eyes. "Yeah. Just — _fuck_ — been a while since I let anyone fuck me. Forgot what it was like."

"How long?" I ask, against my better judgment. I've never asked about Jason's apparent experience with all things sexual. He's seventeen, but he seems to know everything and then some about how all of this works, what he likes, and what I'll enjoy too.

"You want to ask that _now?_ " He's a bit breathless, and I shrug; he'll probably feel the muscle move enough to know what it is.

I shift, and then my hips rock a little bit before I can stop them because it's just so _good_. My answer comes out a lot shakier than I'd like. "If you want me not to move, give me something to focus on _apart_ from how fucking amazing you feel, Jay. I—" I have to stop, clench my hand in the sheets and take a breath. "I don't have your kind of control."

He shoves out a laugh, and oh _god_ that clenches him around me for a second. I shove my hips into the back of his thighs, giving a strangled moan, and his legs tighten around me and hold me there. His hand loosens on the back of my neck, stroking up through my very short hair and along my scalp. It's not exactly _helping_ with this need-to-fuck thing, but it's a tiny distraction and I'll take anything I can get. I don't want to push Jason until he's ready. Not now, not ever.

"Uh, two years and some change?" he answers. "Nightwing; only ever happened once."

"Nightwing?" I echo. "Aren't the Bats pretty much family?"

Jason snorts. "Yeah, sometimes. Like I said, just once. After a mission, we were both high strung, excess energy. He was sparring with me to work it off, we ended up grappling on the ground for pins. One mutual discovery of boners later and he was dragging me off to his room. We fucked until neither of us could move, and both prayed the Bat never reviewed the footage and saw any of it." His hand reestablishes its grip on the back of my neck, and he snorts a second time. "He tiptoed around me for _weeks_ after that. Moron."

I lower my right hand to his waist, tracing my knuckles up his side. "Yeah? Guilt or what?"

"Said some bullshit about being team leader the next morning." He shivers a little bit, his nails digging into my skin. "I am _happy_ to answer your questions, Roy, but I'm not down to think about anyone else right now."

"Ready?" I ask, _praying_ the answer is yes because I don't know how much longer I can hold back.

Luckily, I can feel his head shift in a nod. "Yeah," he groans, and then my breath catches as he pushes back against me, dragging me in hard with his legs. "God, _yes_. Fuck me, Roy."

I keep myself contained just long enough that I can lean down and give him a soft kiss, murmuring, "You got it," against his lips. Then I roll my hips, drawing out and then pushing back in. His heels dig into my back, and we both moan at the same time.

I grip his waist and lower my head so I can bury it against his shoulder, my hips working more on automatic instinct than anything else. There's some basic thought behind it, but honestly the need to fuck is so ingrained that I could probably be mindless and still do a half decent job. It takes me a minute or so to find just the right depth, where it's not too short, but I don't feel like I'm going to fall out either. After that, it barely even requires my attention. Jason is making strangled, groaning sounds beneath me. His nails are digging at my skin, and his breath is hard against the skin of my neck, but he hasn't bitten down. Yet.

"Jason," I moan, as I force myself to slow down a little bit. Into long, slow, deep thrusts that make him clench and shudder.

"Fuck, no, don't—" He shudders again. " _God_. Hard, Roy. Please, harder."

If it wasn't for that shudder, I probably would have snapped to obey. Instead I mouth at his throat, and then pull back enough to whisper, "What's the problem, Jay?" I punctuate it with a particularly deep thrust, making sure I'm pressed hard against the back of his thighs before I let myself pull back again. "Too slow for you?"

" _Yes_ ," he gasps. "Fuck, god, it won't be enough. _Roy_."

I can't explain the hot arousal that lights in the back of my stomach, or the way his words actually slow my hips just a little further. "Maybe I don't _want_ it to be enough," I murmur in his ear, and he gives a choked moan. "Looks like you're enjoying it, Jay, and I _know_ I am. Shut up and enjoy the ride."

His nails rake along my back, arching me in against him for a second. "Me?" he says, in a voice that's half laugh. "Shut up? _Fuck_. Never gonna happen."

"Good." I pull back so I can catch his mouth, biting at his lower lip until he parts his mouth and lets me push my tongue inside. I mimic the rolling thrust of my hips, enjoying his taste and the vibration of his muffled sounds. I tighten my grip on his waist — carefully; that hand is metal and I _don't_ want to bruise him — and curl my other hand into the sheets.

It's the sound that's nearly a whimper that undoes me. I pull back an inch, my hips stalling deep inside him so I can grind against him, and I give one last bite to his lip. Slowly, I pull up enough that I can open my eyes without getting a faceful of hair, and meet his gaze. He's definitely aroused as hell, but he also looks curious and maybe just a little dazed. He shifts, wiggles and clenches in a way that makes me bite my tongue to avoid spitting out the swear on the tip of my tongue.

"Roy, god just—"

"Roll over," I snap, overriding whatever he was going to say.

His eyes widen just a little bit, but his legs do loosen around my waist. "What?"

"You heard me," I almost growl. I'm not sure exactly where this streak of aggression is coming from, but I know that I have an image in my head and I'm sure as _fuck_ going to get it. "Roll over. I want you on your knees, Jason. On _display_."

He swallows, shudders, but then his legs unhook from around me. I do my part, and shift back far enough that I slip out of him. My noise is a low moan, his is a sharper sound that almost approaches a keen. His hand clenches in my hair, but then he releases his grip. I sit back on my heels and watch as he rolls over, shifting to his knees in front of me. His arms are cushioned on the bed, his back an inviting arch from the curve of his ass all the way until it sinks down to meet his shoulders. I can't help reaching forward and palming both cheeks of his ass. I can't help spreading them either, to see him stretch open just a little bit.

He moans again.

I shift forward, pressing myself against him as his legs spread, and then slipping inside. It gets a shudder from both of us; mine is harder than his. I grip his hips, grinding against him and just enjoying the sensation for a moment. Then I move to complete the rest of my vivid mental picture. I lean down over him, sliding my hands up his sides. My chest presses against his back as I wrap my hands around his wrists, and then I push myself up as I drag his arms with me. He's tense for just a moment, but it melts away as I pin both his wrists against the small of his back.

One slightly tricky hand swap later, and I've got both his wrists pinned with just my metal hand. Jason's reaction is a thick moan, and a slightly farther arch of his back.

"Like that, Jay?" I murmur, as I stare down at the curve of his back. "Needed you on your knees. Want to _fuck_ you while I hold your wrists down." I reach forward, curling my free left hand in his hair, and tug him back. His back bends, arching, and I lean forward so I can meet him halfway and press my mouth against his throat. "While I drag your head back by _this_ grip." I tug at his hair to illustrate my point, and then grind my ass against him. "That sound good to you?"

He moans. "Yes. Roy, _yes_. Please, _fuck_. God, just _fuck_ me."

This time I do snap to obey him.

I roll my hips, holding my grip on his wrists and in his hair as I test the new angle. It's pretty fucking amazing. I might not be able to see his face, and he's not in a great position to touch me in return, but I don't care. I can fuck him hard, hold him down, make sure that every thrust of my hips is long, deep, and _hard_. Having his legs wrapped around me is one thing. Having him on his knees in front of me, his throat arched by my grip, is completely different, and just as good.

I only tilt my head back for a moment, to control myself, before looking back down at him. Each snap of my hips slams into him, and all he's doing is spreading his thighs wider and tilting his hips up to give me a better angle. It's gorgeous, especially since I'm pretty sure he'll have bruises once they've had time to form on his skin. It's weird how different it feels. Leaving bruises on his sides, because I've lost control of the strength in my arm, feels like it would be an awful betrayal of his trust. But leaving bruises on the back of his thighs, from this? That sounds _good_.

He's completely under my control.

Without his arms he's got no way to brace, so he's at the mercy of my grip yanking him back against my thrusts. I'm what's holding him up, I've got him all but totally restrained — he's still a former Bat; he could probably break free if he wanted to — and judging by the sounds he's making he _loves_ it. Dangerous, strong, skilled, and he trusts me to restrain and fuck him at the edge of violence. That makes my breath catch, my grip flex, and the shudder he gives makes me tilt my head back for another second.

I swallow, reign in the urge to use any more of my strength, and only then look back down. "What do you need?" I ask, more than a little breathless. "Tell me, Jason."

He twitches, jerks against my grip, and gives a loud moan. " _Nothing_ ," he gasps. "This is good, just— _God_ , keep going."

I want to take him at his word, because he's definitely never lied to me about any of this before, but disbelief creeps into the edge of my mind. "Just like this?" I press. "You can come from getting fucked?" I don't have the experience, but I know that's not common. Usually it takes manual stimulation, man _or_ woman. But if Jason is one of the lucky few, that's…

He shoves out a laugh, wrists twisting against my hold. " _Yes_. If there's enough—" He cuts off with a groan, his hips pressing back against me. " _Fuck_. Enough other sensation." My breath hitches, and then I can't help dragging him up so I can get my mouth against his throat.

Just the idea of that is _hot_. It's fucking _gorgeous_. I'd never even considered the idea that Jason would be capable of coming from nothing but my cock, and whatever 'other sensation' means. He said he was good, so whatever it is he must be getting it. I don't have the mind or the spare attention to track down what that means right now, knowing it's something that I'm doing is enough. Later, I'll definitely have to figure out exactly what it is that makes the difference.

I suck marks into the side of his throat, going after every unmarked bit of skin I can see. Maybe I'm being a bit rough with my teeth, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's definitely not stopping me.

I keep him bent down far enough that I can get real power behind my thrusts, and I can feel the slight trembling of his thighs when I press against them. It concerns me for just a second, until Jason's next sound — this one is almost a sob — echoes into the room. There's nothing but strained pleasure to his tone, and I set the slight concern aside. If Jason needed me to stop, or slow down, or _anything_ , he'd tell me. Jason would never suffer through something he could have changed with a few words, he doesn't have that kind of foolish pride.

He feels incredible, and every clench of his body drives a gasp from mine. I've felt some of it before, with my fingers, but my cock is one hell of a lot more sensitive than my fingers. This is new, it's different, and it's so damn good I'm worried that even though I've gotten off once this isn't going to last nearly as long as I'd like. If it's not long enough to get Jason off…

I bury my nose against his skin, breathing in the combined scent of him and sex. It's intoxicating, it clings to the back of my throat like it's something tangible that I inhaled. I part my mouth just enough that I can get my teeth in his skin and taste him as well. Then I force myself to pull my teeth away, and tilt my head up to brush against his hair and his ear.

"Jason, if I don't last…" My voice is almost a moan, but I fight to keep my words understandable.

"Feel that good?" he asks, with a purposeful clench around me and a teasing edge to his voice. Not that his voice isn't nearly as much of a moan as mine.

I push my face into his neck for a moment, then answer, "God, _yes_. You feel _amazing_ , Jason. I don't know— I've never—" I shudder, focusing my attention down on _not_ tightening my hand around his wrists. "I don't know how to hold back," I finally manage to finish. "God, _Jason_."

"Soon?" His question is a gasp, and his back is arching away from me. For just a moment, my grip in his hair goes lax, his neck bending far enough back that the tension eases. I shift my head in a nod against his throat, then sink my teeth into it to ground myself. "Roy!" He jerks against me, shivering. "It'll be enough. God, Roy, it's been so long. Don't need much."

I bite a little harder, and drag him back onto my thrusts. I shove against him, losing myself in the scent of him, the taste of him, the feel, the way his muscles flex beneath me and the _sounds_ he makes. He's pushing back against me as much as he can, shuddering and jerking in turns. It feels like he's not much more than a few steps away from coming, but I could be wrong. This is different, and I assume it would take longer than a hand or a mouth. Maybe it's intense but a harder, slower build. I don't know enough to know for sure.

My own release builds faster than I'd like, roaring up in the back of my gut. I go just a little harder, and Jason shakes. Then he's gasping, arching, writhing against me as his next breath comes out a shout. I can feel him tense, feel him tighten around me, and it drives the breath out of me. I can recognize the feeling of him coming, and I'm too wound up to last underneath it.

I let go of his wrists, looping my arm around his stomach instead and balling my metal hand to a safe fist. Just in time for the orgasm to hit me like a hammer, sending me grinding into the back of Jason's thighs and muffling a cry against his shoulder. His hands grab at my arm, nails digging in, as my hips jerk in small, short thrusts. As I ride through the wave.

He relaxes a moment before I do, and I have to lock my muscles in place to keep from toppling forward and crushing him into the bed. I force myself to hold it together long enough to pull out of him, and then carefully shift us both down on top of the sheets. He's breathing hard, eyes closed, and my leg is definitely in the wet spot he left behind but I don't give enough of a shit to move. Not right now. Not when he's pressed up against me, forehead against mine and his legs tangled between my thighs. Especially not while his right arm is looped around my chest, palm flat between my shoulder blades.

I'm staying right where I am.

It takes a while, and I definitely don't push it, but finally his hand presses into my back as I feel him shift and stretch. I drag my eyes open, just in time to close them again as Jason kisses me. It's slow and soft, and his whole body moves into me, heat mingling with mine. I let myself enjoy the kiss as I loop my arm around his waist, keeping him close.

I don't know how long we stay like that, but eventually Jason pulls back a few inches, and meets my gaze when I open my eyes again. He's got a small smile on his face, and I can't help echoing it. I almost lean in to kiss him again, but manage to hold myself back. It doesn't stop the low, satisfied noise that leaves the back of my throat. Jason's smile gets a little wider.

"That was good," he murmurs. Then he stretches again, his top shoulder rolling. For one moment I think I hurt him somehow, but the worry slips away as he relaxes. "Give me a little while, and I can return the favor."

I raise my hand off his back to comb his hair away from his face, and give a small shrug. "If you want. I don't think I need to test if I like it the other way. Not right now at least." His smile curves into a small grin, and I give a huff of laughter. "Yeah, it was that good." I shift against him, tightening my grip in his hair for just a second. "I like having you under me, Jay. The way you look, and _sound_." I shake my head. "I'm good. No experimentation needed, I'm happy to just keep fucking you."

Jason snorts out a laugh, and leans up into my hand for a moment. "Sounds good to me. Then give me a little while, and we can do that again. Or something like it." I move to catch his mouth again, and he meets me for a moment before pulling back. Just enough that he can whisper, "Happy birthday, Roy."

I grin. "Best gift," I answer, and then kiss him before he can come up with a response.

For tonight, and as long as I can hold him, Jason is mine. I'm going to take full advantage.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9! Just one more to go, guys! You're almost at the end; keep going!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: totally nonexistent. Enjoy!

* * *

 **February 3rd, 07:22**

* * *

Jason's leg swings over my head as I duck, his heel whistling through the air instead of impacting with my skull. I move in, leading with my metal arm and shoving away the defensive swing of his fist as he rebalances. I have to brush aside the opposite handed punch instead of forcing it, but that comes easier now than it would have a few months ago.

He takes the full brunt of my metal arm shoving into his stomach, and the breath leaves him in a rush. It doesn't stop him though, and even as he staggers back he's recovering and striking out. I barely dodge the foot headed for my ankle, and then his shoulder slams into my chest and knocks me backwards. I don't quite fall, but that's only thanks to the instinctive wrap of my left hand in his shirt. I swing my weight on it — he chokes in a breath as the fabric pulls against his throat — to keep from falling, letting myself lean through it, pivoting on one heel, and then pulling to straighten back up closer to his back.

He tries to turn towards me, but I shove my metal arm up against his ribs and flick the fingers out to tap against the muscle. He stiffens for a brief second, and then relaxes as he laughs. "That is _cheating_ ," he breathes out, turning towards me with a grin. "In any normal fight all that would have done is hurt."

Jason's the one to step up against me, but I'm the one to slide my arms around his waist and hold him there. "Well I'm not _normal_ , am I, Jay?" If this had been a real fight, and if I hadn't held back, a strike to his ribs with my metal arm would have shattered pretty much all of them. It's a killing strike for me, just not for anyone else.

"Fair point." His voice is soft, and he leans down to brush his lips to mine. "It's still cheating."

"You could have ignored the tap," I counter, taking a brief moment to consider where we are in relation to the rest of the room. "You _like_ getting beaten, Jay. Just admit it." I make my double meaning _very_ clear by dipping my metal hand down and pushing it beneath his sweatpants. He gives a soft groan when I grip his ass, and then release that to slide my fingers down between his cheeks.

"Just by you," he halfway-agrees, his right hand rising up and wrapping around the back of my skull to drag me in for a kiss.

My growth spurt hit just when I was convinced it wasn't going to, and I leapt up a good few inches. I'm still just a little shorter than him, but I know I'm not doing growing and I don't think he is either. For right now we're at a bit more of an even height, even if he still outweighs me and looks thicker and stronger than I do. I don't mind that, it just makes it more satisfying when I get him underneath me. All that power, grace, skill, and it's mine to make _beg_. I might be just a little infatuated.

Just a little.

We've learned a lot about each other. Kinks, preferences, the best way to bring each other off in the shortest time possible, or how to draw it out long until the release is almost painfully intense. I've also learned how soft Jason is in the mornings, how stretched out and beautiful he is underneath the golden glow of morning light. Not that either of us is ever usually awake that early in the mornings, but sometimes I slip awake for one reason or another and then stay that way just so I can watch him. Jason is a work of art. Or, sometimes we just had an early night, and the light of the sun through the window is enough to wake both of us.

He's had some bad days too, but we've gotten through them. He's never gotten violent, and I've never been stupid enough to provoke it out of him. It feels like every month that went by, Jason was calmer, and every subsequent time the Pit struck, it was easier to get it to let him go again. The last time, just about a week ago, all I had to do was sit down next to him and talk. I watched the green bleed out of his eyes, and before even a half an hour had passed he was completely himself again. We still didn't do anything more intense than lie next to and around each other for the rest of the day — and make fun of bad movies — but it was easier than it ever had been before.

I'm still not exactly sure what to call this thing between us, but I know that he's mine, and I'm his. I don't think labels matter beyond that. Even if they did I don't think 'dating' describes what we're doing, we sure as hell aren't just friends with benefits, and using the word 'boyfriend' to describe Jason just feels juvenile and ridiculous. Which is stupid, because we _are_ juvenile.

Well, technically I'm twenty-four, but I try not to think about that too much.

Jason makes this soft, breathless noise in the back of his throat that's almost lost to the press of my mouth. I draw enough away that I can rest my forehead against his, and murmur, "Mmm, make that noise again."

He gives a low chuckle. "Really like that, hm?"

"Damn right I do." I pull him a little closer, about to lean in and kiss him again to see if I can coax another one of those soft exhales out of him.

A ringtone goes off.

Both of us still, and then I pull my hands away from him and give a groan. "That's mine," I grumble, stepping back.

Jason's got a small grin curving his mouth, and he lets his hands slip away from me as he tilts his head towards the sound. "Go on then, go pick it up."

I sigh, but head for my phone. I take just long enough to glance at the name on the screen and confirm it's one I recognize before I answer it. "Hey, Roy. What's up?" Jason comes up at my back, his arms wrapping around my waist and his nose pressing into the side of my neck. I tilt my head a bit to give him more room.

" _Roy? Thank god. You're not near any kind of broadcasting screen, are you?"_

"No?" My voice comes out as a question, because I honestly have no idea what he could be talking about. "Is something going on?"

" _Is Jason there?"_ He only waits long enough for me to get the first syllable of 'yes' out before he's talking over me. " _You guys have a TV right? Turn it on. Any channel, doesn't matter. Right now."_

Jason's moving before my clone is done speaking, and I turn as he vaults over the back of the couch instead of walking around it and snags the remote. He clicks it on, and I freeze in my tracks. Jason stiffens more notably.

It's _Batman_ on the screen, with stars in the background that make me think he's on the Watchtower, and an even grimmer expression than usual. He's in the middle of speaking, but it takes me a second to really understand it. When I do, I breathe out, "Oh _shit_ ," into the phone.

" _-to destroy. The demons have shown no ability to communicate, and are in the middle of destroying every major city the portals have opened above. I repeat, this is the Justice League sending out a call for_ _ **everyone**_ _, powered or not, hero, vigilante, or criminal alike, to step up against the invaders. Justice League members will be running activities in each major city, responses are already up and—"_

Jason clicks the TV off, and takes a step back. He looks back at me, and there's something between horror and anger on his face. "Roy, if he's putting a call out for _anyone_ , it's bad. It's _really_ bad. He'd never—"

"Work with criminals otherwise," I finish. "Yeah, shit." I take in a sharp breath and start to move. "I'll be there," I promise, into the phone, and then click it off as I head for the mostly unused main bedroom that holds all my gear. "They'll be gathering people at the Watchtower," I call over my shoulder, as I strip out of my clothes. Jason's probably following me. "Zeta beam tubes will be the best way to get people out across everywhere we'll need them. That's where Batman will be, and anyone who hasn't already been distributed somewhere to try and contain this." I tug into the two pieces of my Arsenal suit, and then start to gather my weapons. I make a point of slinging my sniper rifle over my back too. I might need that.

"Roy," Jason breathes out, and I turn back to him. There's something stricken in his expression, and before I know what I'm doing I've crossed the room and taken his hands in mine.

"Jay? What is it? What's wrong?"

Pain flashes across his face, as his mouth curls into a grim smile. "Batman," he says quietly. "If I go… If he _sees_ me…"

 _Oh_.

I've never pressed Jason for what exactly his plans are, but I know he's stayed under the radar for a reason. I know that his plans involve blindsiding the Bats with his existence, and if he goes with me to fight then that ruins it. Unless I fight here instead of going to the Watchtower, where he can't follow me. I have no idea if any of the attacked cities are close enough for me to get to. But…

"I _have_ to go," I whisper, squeezing his fingers. "This is the world, Jason, it's—"

"I know," he interrupts, and then he's staring at me. I can see the struggle in his expression, until he finally ducks his head and squeezes back. "I'm going with you. I can't let you fight without being there to watch your back."

"It's the Watchtower," I remind him. "That's where I have to go, and who knows where I'll get reassigned to. You can't, Jay."

"I can." He meets my gaze, and then gives a crooked, pained, smile. "I'm still in the zeta recognition systems; why take out a dead guy? I can get into the Watchtower with you, and once I'm there…" He swallows, looks away. "It'll read my recognition as Robin; they'll know."

" _Jason_ ," I breathe. "All the plans you have. If you go with me—"

He leans in and kisses me, and squeezes my hands hard enough to hurt. Just for a second. His exhale is slightly shaky. "You're more important," he admits, even though his voice cracks a little bit. " _Fuck,_ Roy. If it's you or my _stupid_ plans then I pick you." He steps up against me, letting go only to wrap his arms around me and tuck his head down on my shoulder. "It's bad enough out there he called for _everyone_ , so there's no way in hell I'm letting you go out there alone."

Then he's pulling away, brushing his lips across my jaw as he steps back. "I'm changing; _don't_ leave without me." He's moving fast when he slips out of the room, and I stare after him for a moment.

Jason, is coming _with_ me? He's really going to throw away all of the plans he's been building? For _me?_ That's years of work, training, preparation. All of that just because he wants to watch my back in a fight? He's going to go up against Batman — that whole _family_ — without all of his carefully crafted plans, just for me? I don't even know how to react to that. I don't know what to do, or say.

So I force myself to move instead. I make sure I have everything I need, check that all my extra gear is secured over my back, and then head out into the living room. Jason is coming out from his room, tugging his jacket on. He's got his fingers curled around the edge of his helmet, and I don't know if he's faster than I am when it comes to suiting up or if he just keeps all his gear constantly ready, but he looks good to go. He looks ready, even if there's a tinge of fear to his expression right next to the determination.

He steps up next to me, reaching out to catch one of my hands with his free one. "Ready?" he asks, his voice quiet and still cracking a bit.

"You don't have to do this," is my answer. "I don't know all of what this means to you, but I know enough. I'll be alright on my own."

"Maybe," he concedes, then gives a twist of his mouth that's something like a grin. "Or maybe not. Shut up and lead the way, Roy; I'm coming. We haven't got the time for you to try and convince me not to."

I _want_ to try anyway, but he's right. Besides, there's definitely some relief in my chest that I don't have to fight whatever the hell these 'invaders' are by myself. Of course I'd get paired up with someone else, or a team, but having Jason at my back is a different kind of security than having just anyone. I don't think there's anyone I trust to do that more than him.

"Alright," I agree, and give him a gentle tug towards the door before letting go. "Your bike?" I ask, as we head out and to the elevator. Faster than the stairs, _barely_. I've timed both routes, just out of curiosity.

Jason's next reply comes as the modulated voice from his helmet. "That's fastest. I'll drive."

"You know where the local zeta tube is?"

"Yeah, I mapped every tube I could find a while back. This one was easy, big hub of transport." His voice is dark, but he doesn't go into why he did that, or what he might have been planning to do with that information. His tone hints at enough.

He heads out of the elevator the second the doors are open, and I follow at his heels. His bike is near the front of the garage, and it's not quite a jog but he's got long legs and they eat up the distance. _I_ have to jog to keep pace with him; I'm nearly as tall but our proportions are different. He pulls the key from his pocket, deactivating the security on the bike with easy familiarity before swinging his leg over and settling onto it. I only wait long enough for him to back it out of the parking spot before slipping on in back of him.

Any other time, I'd have fun with wrapping my arms around his waist, and pressing my thighs in along the outside of his. Right now, I just take comfort in his heat and solidity, and bury my head against his back to protect my face from the wind. The mask might protect my eyes, but it's not going to stop the cold of the wind against my cheeks, or my jaw. Jason's bulk will.

The bike roars underneath us as he peels out of the garage, and I tighten my grip a little bit and shut my eyes. There's no point trying to talk to him. Even if we could make ourselves heard over the bike and the wind, there's not much to talk about. Jason is coming with me, he's going to head into the Watchtower among all those people that think he's dead, and prove that he's not. I'm going to stand at his side and help him weather it.

I can't imagine Batman will be happy that his Robin has turned into a gun-wielding mercenary. Especially not one that kills. I know the Bat's stance on killing. If staying at Jason's side helps him get through that first meeting, then that's what I'll do. I can take the Batman's anger if it means a little less of it gets focused on my partner.

There. _That's_ the word.

Jason is my partner.

It feels like too long before we're pulling up in front of the sketchy, abandoned looking telephone box half hidden behind a dumpster. For once the light is actually making it into the alley, but that's the early hour. What kind of cruel race decides to start its invasion at not-even-eight in the morning? Someone who knows the usual schedule of vigilantes, apparently. A lot of us are nocturnal creatures, most of the time.

I swing off the bike a second before Jason, and head to the box as he drags the bike to a slightly more hidden corner of the alley and flicks the defenses back on. He joins me a moment later, already pulling off his helmet. He's not wearing anything beneath it, so his face is bare and the wariness in his expression is easy to read.

"Sure you don't want to keep that on?" I ask, keeping my voice soft and quiet as I lean into his side. Just for a moment, just to feel him.

Jason shakes his head. "Either take it off now or they make me take it off once I'm in there. Might as well. You go first, I'll be right behind you."

I nod, and then step around in front of him. I raise my metal hand to comb through his hair, and draw him into a small kiss. "Whatever happens in there," I whisper, "I've got your back." He swallows, grips my side for just a moment with his free hand, and then nods. I step away as he lets go. He cocks an eyebrow, tilts his head towards the box, and gives half a grin. The non-verbal order is easy enough to read.

I pull the door open and step into the box, then pull it closed behind me. I almost flinch at the blue light that sweeps over me from head to toe; it's been a long time since I was in one of these things.

Almost cheerfully, as the yellow light of the teleporter activates, the robot voice proclaims, " _Recognize, Arsenal. B25."_

When the light fades I'm in the Watchtower, and I swallow down nerves and move further into the main room. It's swarming with activity, heroes and anti-heroes alike gathered in small clusters. The tension is almost palpable. Across the room, in front of the large holographic screens and map open in the air, I can see Batman. Nightwing is at his side, although it looks like Robin and Batgirl are missing, or maybe just not right there next to the two of them. If it's as bad as Jason thinks it is, I can't imagine he would let Robin out without a big group around him for protection, or maybe the Team. I can still see scattered members of the Team — M'gann is floating in the air beside the zeta tubes, directing people into groups, and Conner is at the opposite end of them, doing the same thing.

They're probably mentally connected to Nightwing, who's probably debating strategy and the right kinds of teams with Batman.

"Arsenal!" Conner calls, since I'm apparently moderately closer to him. "Right in the middle, the group with Blue Beetle!"

Normally I might jump to obey, but instead I just step to the side to make room for Jason to come through after me. Ignoring the order in the process, but oh well. If any of them really thought I was going to snap to heel just like that they're a little crazy. I'll get to Blue Beetle's group, if that's where they insist on sending me, but I'm not going until Jason is next to me.

The zeta tube starts to glow yellow again. " _Recognize, Robin. B13."_

I see Batman's head _snap_ around, and Nightwing's isn't more than a fraction of a second behind it. Then I look over to find the solidifying form of Jason, with his helmet tucked underneath his arm. He stays stiff and still for a moment, jaw set and eyes narrowed, and then heads for me. It takes me a second to realize that underneath the chatter of the people who haven't realized it yet, there's a tense silence. That silence is growing louder as Jason comes to stand next to me — close enough that his shoulder is pressed hard to mine — and a glance confirms that the crowd is parting in front of Batman and Nightwing like sheep in front of wolves. I brace my feet against the metal of the space station, and raise my left hand behind Jason so I can rest it at the small of his back. I'm not crazy enough to try holding him right now, not even something as simple as my fingers through his.

He's got that perfectly still _intensity_ going on, and I can see the very slight green tint to his eyes. He's holding together, but this is going to be hard enough without me doing something as stupid as restraining him.

Judging by the way he just barely shifts into my touch, he appreciates me not being an idiot.

Batman stops just close enough to make Jason's mouth twitch into a snarl. A second later I recognize that it's because at this range Jason is just a _little_ too far away for an instant strike, but Batman, with his longer arms, isn't. It's a good strategic advantage, even if Jason is definitely good enough to make sure he can't really use it.

There's a moment of silence — almost complete; most of the room is silent and watching — and then Nightwing, at Batman's shoulder, breathes out, "Little Wing?"

Jason flinches like he's been punched. Nightwing recoils a few inches. Batman stays perfectly still apart from the clench of his jaw.

He's a good half of a foot taller than Jason, and that means he's looking down at my partner. I can't read his expression; I haven't got the faintest _clue_ what he's thinking. Nightwing, on the other hand, looks a bit like he's been gutted, and Jason is a lot more obviously wary than he was a few moments ago, even if there's a whole lot of anger in front of it.

"That Robin is _dead_ ," Batman spits through his teeth. "Whoever you are, you made a mistake impersonating him."

"Fuck off, B," Jason spits back. His voice shakes a little bit, and I resist the urge to prime the weapon systems on my arm. "I didn't stay dead, and you didn't notice. Talk to Cheshire or Red Arrow if you want confirmation, or just have M'gann read my mind you paranoid _bastard_."

"I can confirm it," I put into the conversation, though I only get a glance from Nightwing and a sharp jerk from Batman. "We've been in communication since June. Put us on a team and let's go."

Batman's hands curl to fists, and I can feel Jason shift a little bit in response, tensing like he's ready to spring. "You haven't got the time to argue, old man," Jason snarls. "You need all hands on deck, so I'm here." He glances at Nightwing. "You're both fucking _lucky_ that making sure he lives," Jason's chin jerks towards me, "is more important to me than how badly I want to _rip_ you to pieces. Get whatever confirmation of my identity you need and stop wasting time."

M'gann's already descending to land lightly to our right, and Conner is edging in on the left. I can feel Jason coiling tighter at their proximity, and though his hands don't grip his weapons they're very close to them. It would only take a fraction of a second for him to transform from coiled into deadly movement, though even I wouldn't give Jason good odds against the people surrounding us, let alone the rest of the heroes around the room. It would only take a small spark for this whole room to burst into violence, and all of it would be aimed at the two of us.

Jason clearly knows that.

Batman's head flicks in a curt nod, and he takes half a step back. "Miss Martian." No order follows it, but I'd bet anything that Nightwing and Conner are still connected to M'gann.

She steps forward, warily, and Jason's gaze turns to her. Her eyes light green for a moment, and then dull back out. "I need you to let me in," she admits, with a brief glance at Batman.

Jason doesn't relax even slightly. "Disconnect from boy wonder over there first," he snaps, then he looks over at Nightwing. " _You_ don't get inside my head, Nightwing."

Nightwing still looks a bit like someone's taken a knife to his stomach, but I can see the slight twist to his head that means he's speaking with whoever's in on their mental link. A few seconds later M'gann announces, "It's done. Your defenses—"

"I got it." Jason eases out just a little bit, but his mouth is set into a flat line that just barely curls down at the corners. "You're not going to like what you find in there."

Her eyes glow green again, and I can see the light in the back of Jason's eyes that means she's connected with him. The other sign is the way he twitches, fingers curling into fists for a brief moment. The slight shiver that shakes his shoulders is the next one. I have to swallow, and I put just a little more pressure at the small of his back to force myself not to do anything drastic. The green light of her powers looks way too similar to the light of the pit for my taste, and practice says that if his eyes are _that_ green than I need to step back, get in his direct line of sight, and start talking low and soft to get his attention on something other than whatever triggered him.

Jason going pit mad in the middle of a bunch of heroes would be _very_ bad.

Suddenly M'gann recoils with a sharp gasp, and that light goes out of both of their eyes instantly. I can see the miniscule twitches of restrained motion from Nightwing and Conner, but neither of them make any more defined motion towards Jason or M'gann. That's good, because Jason might be stock still but I can feel that he's a hairsbreadth away from violence if pushed right now. Not all of that green is gone from his eyes.

"It's him," M'gann confirms, and I don't need her telepathy to know that she's shaken. I can't imagine that Jason's head — especially when he's in this precarious a situation — is a pleasant place to be.

I press my shoulder a little harder into Jason's when her gaze comes back to him, and there's _pity_ in her expression. I know Jason _hates_ being pitied for what he's been through, and I'm a little pissed on his behalf.

So I take a step forward, half in front of Jason, and demand, "Satisfied?" I aim the question at Batman. It's hard to stand face to face with him when he's so obviously angry, but I've got a deadly assassin at my back and I'm not that bad a fighter either, so I manage it. Even if it makes my gut clench up with nerves to go toe to toe with _the_ Batman.

I can see Batman's jaw clench harder for a moment, and then Nightwing's hand touches his shoulder. Just a brush, but it's like they have a whole conversation without even needing a telepathic connection. Batman eases out a little bit, and his head tilts up so he's obviously looking at Jason, and not me.

"Whatever issues you have with me, you follow my orders while you're in the field." His voice is a rough growl, with _no_ room for compromise. "Is that clear?"

"Clear," Jason spits from behind me, "but I stay with Arsenal. That part's not up for debate."

"Done." Batman takes half of a step back, turning partially away. "The group in the middle. Star City." Then he's spinning on his heel, with a flare of the black cape around his shoulders, to head back towards the holographic map. Nightwing lingers for a moment, but ultimately follows his mentor without saying anything. M'gann stays the longest, but neither her nor Conner say anything else either.

Jason eases a touch when they've all turned away, and I look back at him. "Alright?" I ask, keeping my voice low and barely above a breath. He'll read my lips more than he'll actually hear the whisper.

He hesitates, and then gives a short nod. It's quickly followed by a crooked, strained smirk and then an equally crooked shrug. He drags in a deeper breath and then pulls his helmet out from under his arm, fitting it over his head. I wait until the seal has clicked shut with a hiss, and the only slices of skin visible on him are on his wrists and throat, before reaching back to curl my fingers around his. The slight squeeze says he appreciates the touch, and his grip stays tight enough that I take it as a message not to let go.

He pulls me towards the center group, shoulders squared and his walk long and steady. I go, though I do pull him down to a just slightly shorter stride so I can keep pace without rushing. People stare as we approach, but no one moves to greet either of us or intercept. Jason only takes us to the outskirts of the group anyway, and stops before we're close enough to any of the heroes to be within striking distance for us or them. At least normally. I'm pretty sure there are a couple people — at least — in this group capable of flinging projectiles of one sort or another. Blue Beetle, for one.

There are enough heroes here that I can't even name them all. Most, sure, but there are a few faces that aren't familiar. Which is strange, because I thought I knew pretty much everyone at least by name and face. I haven't met a huge number of them, but I learned a lot about who I might be fighting next to before I joined up with Oliver.

Who _is_ here. Ah, _fuck_.

I studiously ignore him, focus on Batman — just starting some kind of speech — and tighten my grip on Jason's hand. This is not going to be fun.

* * *

Stepping out of the zeta tube and into Star City feels like a war zone. The bigger heroes — metas, exclusively — went first. They're driving the invaders back to give the rest of us room to safely get out of the teleporters before being attacked, so that at least our method of getting in and out of the city is secure. It's show more than power, though I can see the 'demons' falling left and right even under the flashier, more defensive power sets being used. Falling, but getting back up again too. They're not staying down as often as they should be, considering the kind of power they're getting hit with.

They're huge, easily four or five times the size of a regular human, and probably double the size of Lagoon Boy when he puffs up to looking ridiculous. They're a dark greenish, with dark gold armor over most of their skin that's got glowing red circles in it. The skin that is visible has glowing teal lines through it, and the armor seems like it's fused into their skin directly. That's most obvious on the wings they've got, which are thinner and partially see through, but the struts have that armor almost completely covering them. They don't seem to be speaking, and what I can see doesn't say much for their sense of combat, but their roars are loud and slightly ear piercing.

At least partially mindless, point for us.

The bigger threats, from what I can see, are the more distant ones. _Enormous_ brown dogs, with savage teeth and that same golden armor, and slightly smaller golden tanks with dragon heads for the control center. They seem to be breathing fire. Joy.

I think I'll leave those to the bigger heroes, and spend my time taking out the foot soldier demons. That seems less suicidal, and a more efficient use of my time than seeing if one of those dogs will go down under my limited supply of missiles. I'm just going to save those for if I really need them.

Jason gets to work immediately, and I follow at his heels. He heads straight for the outer edge, only turning to me long enough to ask, "Top of a building?" I click into his method of thinking pretty instantly.

These demons seem to have some kind of enhanced strength on top of their armor, but they _don't_ seem to have any kind of a ranged weapon. If we get to the top of a building, not only are we going to have the best viewpoint to pick and choose targets from, but they'll have to come to us if they want to do any kind of melee. That means we'll be able to see them coming from anywhere, and take them out probably long before they get to us. If any of them do get close enough, my arm and Jason's knife should be enough to take care of them.

"Got it," I answer shortly, and he breaks into a run as I prep the grappling hook on my arm. The ring has pushed far enough back that we can duck through alleys without problem; all the demons are focused on the flashier heroes and ignoring two mostly regular looking guys who are only taking casual shots.

Jason gets outside the ring, at least by a few blocks, and then picks the tallest building in the area — it's residential, so it's only about ten stories — and heads to the top. I'm only a fraction of a second behind.

We click into gear as soon as we're up there, like it's any other battle. I'm not used to fighting side by side in ranged combat with Jason — usually he goes more melee, while I watch his back from a farther distance — but it's not so different. I feel more than see him at my back, one of us covering each half of the building, as we move and spin. The demons take more notice of us, but it's not enough to actually be dangerous. A few fly at us and come to crash landings on the roof as we get out of the way, but they're dead before they ever hit.

Beyond our building, we're doing well. Maybe it's just because we had such a concentrated group of heroes in one section, but the ring extends pretty well. Eventually, it's more of a line than a ring, as the heroes at the back take out everything back there and circle around to join the front. Not that it's easy, exactly. I don't see anyone go down, but I see a couple people take some hits, and the collateral damage is pretty bad. I didn't really expect anything less than that though.

You can't fight a war without damaging the ground you fight on. The more do-good style heroes will be on cleanup duties for weeks, I'm sure of it.

Jason and I change buildings every time the heroes come towards our backs, staying ahead of the line and in front of the rest of them, but also staying just far enough back that the _serious_ front liners — flying heroes, mostly, and it looks like we've got one of the Flashes with us — can take on the bigger tanks and dogs head on without involving us. It's not an easy fight, but it's not a hard one. Just enough to be challenging without really feeling dangerous. It helps that Jason is the one at my back, and I trust him to see anything I might miss.

The invading army focuses on us after that brief period though, circling around to meet us. It gets a little worse after that, but there's not much that anyone can do with this many heroes united, not with just foot soldiers. It also helps that the weird hero morality has kicked into play, and since these things don't look human, or appear to have real intelligence, no one is having problems using fatal levels of force. So we're not getting shit for shooting them in the heads either.

We drive them back towards the huge portal that's open in roughly the middle of the city, the one that has a seemingly endless supply of these demon soldiers coming through it. Interspersed with the odd tank or dog, sure, but mostly it's these stupid things. The only threat they pose is the sheer number of them, and the fact they seem to be able to take a hit. Luckily, the heroes are learning just how hard they have to hit to take them down, so that's stopped being an issue.

Green Lantern joins us, eventually.

Turns out that he was somewhere in the opposite direction, fending off the outliers and trying to keep them from scattering any farther. Since the group got the soldiers focused on us instead, he was able to push forward, round up the dregs he was fighting, and join us. Having such a big time Justice League member at the front of the battle definitely makes a difference. Partially the moral boost is easy to see, but also the power he brings to the fight is seriously impressive. Lanterns as a whole have some scary power levels.

We manage to get the fight pressed forward to just beneath the portal, circling around it and taking out things as they come through the portal. That's when some of the heroes — Lantern not included — break off and head back in the direction of the zeta tube.

I don't spare it much attention until Jason — at my side instead of my back now, since there's no risk of attacks from any direction but ahead of us — calls out, "Where the hell are they going?"

I glance back at the leaving group before returning my attention to the fight, aiming my assembled sniper rifle up towards the portal itself while Jason takes out the closer things. I squeeze off a shot before I answer. "I'd guess it's that we've got this handled. This city's defended, so they're pulling off the unnecessary bits of the group to transport them to a different city that isn't doing as well. That's what I'd do." A second shot. "We can handle anything that comes through that, and there's no army already on the ground to deal with."

"Fair point," Jason answers. I pull up off the ground to take a few shots with my smaller gun, as he reloads his. The sniper rifle is powerful, but to brace for it properly I have to be lying down or at least leaned into something. The metal arm helps with the kick, I'll give it that.

"What, worried we can't take out these bottom feeders?" I tease, with a flash of a smirk up at him.

He answers with an easy grin, though his eyes don't leave the skies above and ahead of us. "You and me versus these morons? Piece of cake; they can't even get _near_ us." Jason's joy — at the challenge, the fight, the simple love of fighting _with_ someone — is infectious, and I find myself returning the grin. I also have to resist the urge to get up from the roof of the building and gather him into a kiss, because this is _so_ not the place or the time for that.

No matter how incredible he looks with that easy joy, that carefree grin because this is what he's good at. No matter how light his eyes or how close to a laugh he sounds, kissing Jason in the middle of a still active battlefield, with judging heroes all around, is a _bad_ idea. I have to convince myself of that a little more intensely than I think I should have.

In hindsight, it was like _asking_ the universe to fuck us over.

One of the tanks explodes under a barrage of fire from a couple of the ranged heroes, and both Jason and I instinctively duck a bit at the noise. It's too far to be any threat, or that's what I think until the spinning, golden dragon's head of the fire breathing turret comes flying at our building. Jason shouts a wordless warning, spotting it at the same time, and reaches for his grapnel. I shift my arm to the same, pushing up and abandoning the rifle on the rooftop. I only get to my knees before the head hits.

Jason doesn't have the grapnel in hand yet, and I don't have my balance. The building topples and collapses beneath us, the roof falling out from underneath my knees and Jason's feet. He gives a second wordless shout, and I realize in the same moment that my arm clicks into being ready that there's nothing to hook it to. Anything it could hook to is falling with us, and no other building is close enough or within line of sight.

My brain only gets a moment to process this before Jason's hand is wrapped around my arm and he's dragging me close in our freefall, instinctively tucking his head in. At least until we hit the first level — angled concrete, I _think_ — and it jerks us apart. I can dimly hear Jason cry out in pain underneath the rumble and smash of the collapsing building, but I can't identify how he was hurt or if it's serious. I just know that his grip on me slackens, and I roll for a half of a second where I try desperately to cling to that piece of concrete before I'm falling again. I completely lose track of Jason in the chaos.

My back is the next thing to hit, and I slam into whatever the hell it is for just long to feel the thud of impact and the dig of something against my spine before a rumble of the building and some falling concrete forces me to roll sideways. That promptly drops me off the edge again, and if I wasn't in such a theoretical struggle for my life, I'd be really sick of this falling bullshit. As it is, the third impact cracks my head against stone. I don't stay conscious long enough to feel the pain of hitting the ground level.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10! This is it! Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for this chapter are: fairly severe injury, and some serious emotional confrontations.

* * *

 **February 3rd, 10:09**

* * *

"Arsenal!"

The call of my name is dim, fuzzy, like someone yelling through a pile of blankets or a soundproofed wall. I still twitch at it, dragging in a deep breath and cringing my way towards awareness. I _hurt_. My entire torso feels tenderized, like someone's been beating the shit out of me, and there's an ache in my skull that says 'concussion' to me, but by far the worst of the pain is the _fire_ of my right leg. It feels wrong, it hurts, and every time I so much as twitch that fire spreads up from my calf to my thigh.

I pry my eyes open, grimacing and choking back the cry of pain that tries to claw its way up my throat. I barely manage it, and the effort costs me a few seconds of not really understanding what I'm seeing before my mind clicks back into action.

It's Jason crouched over me, the brown leather jacket and red helmet tells me that. But the helmet is shattered down the left side of his face, cracking at the edges and exposing a wide stripe of his expression. I can see his cheek, his left eye, some of that white hair at his forehead, and the corner of his mouth. He looks worried, and almost afraid.

"Jay?" I manage to gasp out. I find out that my metal arm still works when I raise it towards him on automatic, and he turns towards the brush of my fingers to his cheek.

"Thank _god_ ," he breathes. "Building went down. You got the worst of it; I caught myself, barely." One of his gloved hands brushes my forehead, and I wince at even the gentle pressure to what's definitely going to bruise. "We need to go, alright?" He glances up, and then back over his shoulder. "New wave from the portal, ring's been driven back a little ways. They're recovering, but we're in too far and if we get _noticed_ by these things…"

I swallow, closing my metal hand around the collar of his jacket as I press myself to just breathe evenly. "I— Right leg. I don't think I can walk."

He looks down, along my body, and I can see his expression tighten up. I manage to lift my head far enough to see the massive piece of concrete firmly pinning that leg to the ground. " _Fuck_ ," he spits. "Alright, so I'll carry you, get you back to the zeta tube, to the medics. To hell with these heroes; didn't even help when the building crumbled under us."

He moves, down along me and carefully stepping to the opposite side. His arms curl under the concrete, and I can see him pause, take a deep breath in, and then _strain_ upwards.

I think the noise that leaves my throat is better described as a _shriek_ than a scream.

Something grinds _through_ my leg, _pain_ sweeps up to paralyze the rest of me, and Jason lets go of the concrete and jerks away. I collapse out of the tension, shivering and choking on the agony of whatever the hell is wrong with my calf. Dimly, I register that Jason is lying down next to me, craning his head to peer underneath the concrete. The next thing that I fully understand he's kneeling by my shoulder, gripping my flesh hand in one of his and gently tracing the fingers of his other one across my jaw.

"Come on," he whispers, staring down at me. "Can you hear me, Original? _Please_ , talk to me."

I manage to jerk my head in a nod, squeezing down on his fingers with as much strength as I can muster. " _Hurts_ ," I choke out, and his mouth curves in a grim smile.

"Yeah, it damn well should. I'd be fucking terrified if you weren't in a shitload of pain." He looks up again, scanning the sky and the area behind him before refocusing. "So, bad news is that you've got a piece of rebar through your leg. I can't get the concrete off of you without disturbing it, and if I rip it out of there there's going to be a _lot_ of blood. Worse news is that we're stuck here because of that, and I don't think it's going to be long before one of these idiot soldiers realizes there's a couple tasty humans down here."

"So what's the good?"

That grim smile sticks around. "The rebar's keeping blood flow to a minimum for right now, so you're not in danger of bleeding out for a long while yet as long as it stays in and steady. Also you've got me, and I'm sure as fuck not leaving you here. This just means I've gotta hold this spot until the heroes get their damn act together and shut these portals down." He leans down, and I close my eyes as his half shattered helmet presses to my forehead. His voice is a whisper between us. "I'm keeping you safe, you hear me, Roy? You are _not_ dying on my watch."

I squeeze his hand again. "Got it." I swallow away the part of me that wants to keen or maybe cry at the pain, trying to force myself to breathe evenly. It sort of works.

Jason pulls back, and loops around to my other side so he can stare upwards through the more unobstructed side of the collapsed building. He looks still and poised, the worry faded away to make room for steel focus. There's a faint trail of blood down what I can see of his face, starting near the corner of his eye. Nothing big, but it's enough to give me an idea of the kind of force that hit him to shatter his helmet. That thing is fairly sturdy; I've seen it take hits before.

"You're hurt," I point out, quietly.

Jason's gaze flicks down to me for a fraction of a second. "Bruises and a cracked rib," he answers, voice hushed and clipped. "It's nothing."

Memory drags at the edge of my mind, and then I tighten my grip on his fingers and hiss, " _Liar_. I heard you when we fell, Jay. You don't shout like that for _bruises_." It was loud enough I could hear it over the crumbling of the building, so it either must have been a shocking pain or a serious one. Serious means a whole other thing to Jason than it does to me.

He gives a small shrug, not looking down this time. "Yeah, that was the rib. Particular hard edge that didn't fit in with the rest of the rubble, startled me into letting go of you. The rest of it just gave me bruises but that spot cracked the rib. It's fine, Roy."

"Jason—"

"It's _fine_ ," he snaps. "Look, it's not going to kill me and it's not going to get me killed unless I'm really _stupid_ about it, so it's fine. I'll handle it until these fucking heroes get their shit together and we can get out of here." His mouth twists in a crooked smirk, and he looks down at me. "Worry about yourself, Original. I know my own limits, and I'm not the one who's pinned in place. You can harass me about my health after we've made sure you make it out of here."

I manage a snort, glancing up at the sky and the faint blur of the demons streaming past. "Gives me something to focus on," I breathe out. He echoes my snort as he recognizes his own words being said back to him. True, I'm not in the middle of a panic attack, or that desperately in need of something apart from memories to think about, but my leg hurts like hell and I don't like being vulnerable like this. Thinking about how Jason might be hurt is easier than thinking about how relatively helpless I'll be to defend myself from one of those things.

"You're an ass," he murmurs, even though his tone is soft. Then his entire face closes off as he looks up, and he shoves out the rest of his breath. "Here we go."

He pulls his hand away from mine, and I follow his gaze as he stands. The demons are taking notice of us, a section peeling off from the main force to dive down. It's not that far a dive, and Jason pulls two of his guns out as he steps around me. A sharp whistle calls their attention to him, as he moves away from me. His stride is sure and steady over the uneven footing of the rubble, and he moves far enough away that, theoretically, none of them should focus on me. Jason is obviously the bigger threat, and maybe if I'm still enough they won't realize I'm alive. Even if they do, I've got my own weapons, and I can defend myself as long as none of them are expecting me to fight back.

His guns rise, but he waits long enough for the shot to be completely sure before he starts shooting. He's _efficient_. Each shot takes down one of the demons, and he moves like it's a dance as he slips around the falling bodies crashing to the ground. I almost shout a warning, as I realize that the sound of the guns is attracting more of the demons, but I swallow it back. I don't want to call attention to myself and his head is tilted up anyway, so he can probably see them.

It's not enough for long. Soon there's too many of them for him to take out before they reach the ground, and then he has to turn his attention to the ones closest to him. There's also the precious seconds where he has to reload, and that's what lets them get too close for comfort. Jason is circling, dancing, and dodging with grace I didn't even know he had — have I _ever_ seen him fight at this kind of skill level? — but it's not enough to keep the sheer numbers off of him. The next time he has to pause to reload a swinging arm grazes him, snapping his head around to the side and disrupting the flow of movement. Stalling him for seconds he can't afford to be still.

It _burns_ that I can't do much more than sit and watch, heart in my throat, until I catch another glimpse of him. It hurts even more that the glimpse I catch is him being thrown from the group, flying through the air until he hits rubble. I can't hear the _crack_ of his helmet smacking against stone, but I can see the way it snaps his throat into an arch from the angle.

He's moving again after a second, dropping both guns to yank the mostly shattered helmet off his head and throw it at the group of demons with a shouted curse. A flick of one hand into his jacket and the helmet _explodes_ , prompting roars and cries of pain from the demons, and sending them crashing to the floor. The detonator gets dropped and Jason is on his feet again, guns in his hands and a snarl on his lips. It gives him another few minutes of advantage, as he takes out stragglers and then returns his sights to the diving ones, but it's still not enough.

The next moment of panic I get is when Jason reaches for another clip of ammo and comes up empty. I can _see_ him freeze up for just a fraction of a second. That's right before he throws the two empty guns into the face of the currently charging demon and then reaches for his backup ones. One left at the small of his back, and the second smaller and in his right boot. Not that it matters; with no spare ammo left all he can do is empty the clips in those and then discard them too.

That's when one of the demons comes dropping out of the sky at Jason's back, jaw already open and breathing _fire_ even as it lands. He _screams_ , but has the sense of mind to duck out of the way and leap to the side, shedding his jacket as he moves. It's still on fire, but the damage is already done, and I can see the patch of melted, burnt, _scorched_ armor and skin on the back of his left shoulder. I can see the way it makes his movements just slightly jerky and folds him in on that side.

My arm primes with only my barest consent, and I take just half a second to make sure it's necessary — it fucking _is_ — before I aim and activate the laser. Three short bursts; three dead demons. It gives Jason a few seconds of reprieve. The arcing sweep of my arm, the laser cutting through the sky and taking out at least a dozen, gives him plenty more. It gives him enough time to close some of the distance between us, and get his knife into his hand. A pretty shitty defense against enemies like these, but it's not really like he's got any better options.

"You alright?" I call, as I check the power levels on my arm. Not high, too much of a fight before this for that, but good enough for now.

He doesn't look back at me, but I can see the edge of what I think might be that same snarl. "I'll live," he answers, sounding breathless and in pain. Considering I'm pretty sure that fire melted his armor _into_ his skin, I'd be seriously fucking surprised if he wasn't. "Save the—" He cuts off, choking a little bit, and I ramp up my estimation from 'pain' to 'agony.' "Save the laser for the ones who go after you," he manages.

"I don't think so," I snap back. "I need you alive when this is over, Jay. This doesn't go one way."

I'm sure he would argue, but then down comes the next wave of the demons — I swear these ones look angrier — and the fight restarts. Jason's grace clicks back in as he circles them, darting in to shove his knife into tender spots. Most of those tender spots end with dead demons, the rest look crippled. I pick off ones on the outside that seem to have turned my direction, as well as flinging out swathes of the laser into the sky whenever I get the chance. Since it's taking Jason longer to kill the ones on the ground, I think my intervention is the only thing keeping him from being swarmed and overwhelmed. Bat training or not, he can only take on so many opponents at once, and only for so long.

I'm in the middle of another of those slices through the sky when I hear Jason cry out, and my gaze yanks back down to find him. He's staggering back, his knife stuck in the side of a demon's leg, clutching at his right side. It only takes me a second to see the blood dripping to the ground, but it's the same second that his foot catches on a jagged slab of concrete and he falls hard onto it. My breath catches on a shout, and I pull my arm down in what feels like slow motion as the demon lunges at Jason. Jason, who looks up at it but doesn't reach for a weapon because he doesn't _have_ one.

He's going to _die_. Die defending me and won't that be the worst conversation in the world to have with Batman. Sorry, your not-dead son and I were fucking and maybe in love but I got him killed trying to defend me, so I guess you'll never know him after all. And Jason will be _gone_ , permanently this time because the universe doesn't give random people third chances like that. All because he wanted to protect me, and wouldn't stay away from this fight even though it went against _everything_ he'd been trying to do with his life.

" _Jay!_ " I shout, the laser building but it's not going to be fast enough. Jason's head bows down onto the concrete.

Bright green knocks the demon away from him, slamming it to the side with casual power. Jason's head jerks back up, my laser stalls in its place, and fucking _Green Lantern_ drops to the floor in front of my partner. He's got a few ripped, bloody spots of his own, but that doesn't stop him from bracing his ring arm and spreading his legs into a sturdy stance as the power flows from it. The power difference has never been so obvious, as I watch him slice apart the remaining demons with the sweep of a giant chainsaw and then turn some kind of minigun up at the few left in the sky. Within a few seconds the threat is gone, and he's spinning towards Jason and kneeling down next to him.

The residual silence is enough for me to hear him as he says, voice all sarcasm and lightheartedness, "Hey, kid. Leave some for me next time, alright?"

Against all odds, Jason's mouth twitches into a smirk. "No promises," he answers, before he gasps and groans, curling in on himself. I know his tells enough to know he's in a _lot_ of pain, and not feeling anywhere near safe.

"Hang on, I gotcha."

The ring glows brighter, but Jason shakes his head. "No; _Arsenal_."

"Do _not_ listen to him," I snarl across the rubble. "He's bleeding; I'm stuck but I'll be fine just get him out of—"

" _Rebar_ ," Jason snarls. "Rebar, through his leg. Couldn't get him away without pulling it out, _you_ can cut through the bar and leave it in for the medics." Another gasp. "Just got this; blood loss won't be an issue for a while. _Go_ before the bastards come back."

"Uh-huh," Green Lantern says, glancing between us. "Well how about I just take you both? That sound good?" He's up and moving before Jason can argue, floating over and settling by my leg. I try and stay totally still as the threads of his power wind underneath the rock, and mostly it works. There's still a grating shift as I hear whatever the construct is saw through the rebar, but I manage to bite back the cry of pain and any more movement than a heavy shudder. I squeeze my eyes shut, and the next thing I know I'm being lifted.

I did _not_ know that Green Lantern's constructs were warm, but solid like steel. That's new.

"Jay," I breathe, turning my head as I open my eyes. I find him at the same time that Green Lantern lifts him into a second one of the stretchers, and his gaze fixes on mine.

"Alright," Lantern says, as he lifts off the ground. "I'll have you back at the medics in just a minute; hang on, kids."

"Not a kid," Jason grumbles, but without any real strength behind his words. I manage a smirk, and he answers with a small, crooked grin. He's a little less curled up now, and I _wish_ that he was close enough I could reach out and take his hand but he's not. Probably for the best; I'll take him keeping pressure on that wound in his side over holding his hand, even if it would be reassuring.

"Mmhmm," Green Lantern agrees absently, "tell me that again when you're eighteen." Jason gives half a snarl, his eyes closing as he eases down against the green glow of the construct. "We did it, by the way. The portals are closed, we're just mopping up the last of them."

Tension eases out of my shoulders, and I breathe out in a sigh and mimic Jason, relaxing into the construct. It's steel near my legs, holding my impaled one carefully at an angle and very still, but the construct beneath my head and shoulders is soft, like fabric. I let my eyes mostly close, only holding them open enough that I can still see Jason through the slit. I'm not taking my eyes off of him until he's been treated, no way in hell.

"Well done, kid." Green Lantern's praise is soft, but it makes Jason pry his eyes open and look up. "Not many non-powered people could have held like you did down there. You did good work." His head turns, and I watch the flash of white teeth as he gives a small grin. "Both of you."

I give a huff, sharing a look with Jason. "Nice to be appreciated," I murmur, and Jason gives a pained snort.

"We're going to get so much _shit_ once we're patched up," he counters, with a small shrug that immediately makes him wince and gasp.

"We'll figure it out." I know that the Bats are going to descend on Jason as soon as they get the chance, and I know that Oliver is going to come after me too, if he gets the chance. While we're stuck in medical would be a prime time to ambush us, so at the very least I'm sure that the Bats will be there. They take advantage of stuff like that.

This time Jason just gives a small nod, and a tiny flicker of his lips that's just enough to be called a smile. "Yeah. Deal."

* * *

 **February 3rd, 11:45**

* * *

Jason's fingers clench around mine, teeth gritting as the medic carefully peels the bits of armor burned into his shoulder away from the damaged skin. If it wasn't my metal fingers, I might be concerned that he'd do some real damage. As it is, I just let him grip as tight as he needs to. I sure as hell abused his arm while they were dealing with my leg, he's owed at least this much.

"You doing alright, Jay?" I ask, and his head immediately jerks in a nod.

The medic behind him is frowning, even as she works. "This would be easier if you would consent to anesthes. _Either_ of you."

I can see the immediate reaction in Jason, the sharp _snarl_ of refusal, and I lightly squeeze his fingers and look up at the medic. "No," I deny, speaking for him. "High tolerance; you'd have to pretty much knock him out and frankly there's no way in hell that's going to happen unless you call someone in to hold us both down for it. He'll take the pain."

She sighs, depositing a chunk of armor down on the tray next to her. "Recovery will be slower without medication to combat the pain. The stress—"

"So give us something to go and we'll take it at home." Jason nods again, confirming my words, so I watch the medic. "No offense to you, but we're not going to get drugged up to our eyeballs anywhere but where we're absolutely safe."

She looks like she wants to argue, her mouth even parts to do it, but then she clicks it shut again. She meets my eyes for a second, and then gives a terse nod. "Both of you know the signs of infections, and how to change and dress injuries?" I wait for Jason to give another of his small nods before I echo it. "Alright, fine then. I'll finish here, then give you the prescriptions and instructions on when to take them. I'll include a second sheet for how to take care of these injuries, and all restrictions for until you've both recovered. _Follow_ them, no pushing, or you _will_ end up back in here. I don't care how badly you want to go out in costume."

Jason snorts. I give a crooked smirk. "Not a problem; we're not really the patrolling kind of heroes."

She's silent for a good few seconds, through Jason's small hiss as she pulls another piece of the armor off his skin, then she glances down before speaking softly. "For the record, you're both safe here."

I can see Jason tense a little bit more, but he doesn't immediately snap anything. I watch him for a second, just to make absolutely sure that he's not going to decide to actually react verbally or violently. Then I squeeze his fingers and give a shrug. "Sure, yeah." Which is about the furthest thing from agreeing, but I'm not going to give her more than that.

Physically, sure, we're probably safe. The League probably wouldn't arrest us, or at least not me. Jason is more questionable, but they probably haven't had the chance to look up anything he's done yet. Technically, Batman might not even know what name he's using yet. Possible he might know the costume, and already have put it together, but not that likely. So until that information comes out, we should be more or less safe from any arrest attempts. The only other physical danger is if Jason gets triggered by something and snaps, but that would just be them physically stopping him. Totally the wrong way to handle it, but they won't know that.

But apart from physical…

Oliver will be here soon enough, and so will the Bats. I have no idea how much damage they could do to Jason's usually precarious mental state with stupid comments, and how badly they might hurt him. Or, how badly he might hurt them. I'm sure that Jason could hurt all of them pretty badly just with words, if he wanted to. I think he does want to, but will he while we're in such a bad position to defend ourselves? He's smarter than that, but anger doesn't always give way to logic. I don't doubt that seeing and talking to the Bats, especially more than one of them, is going to fuck him up pretty badly.

He's always talked about Batman like it hurt to even think about him, and he didn't do that well with the confrontation earlier either. He didn't snap, but it hurt him. A real conversation might do a lot worse, and we're not going to get lucky enough to get out of here without the Bats ambushing him. No way.

Jason eases out once the medic is done picking pieces of armor out of his skin, and by the time she's put the pad over his burned skin, taped it down, and left to retrieve the information and medication for us, he looks more or less fine again. He's even gripping my fingers a lot less tightly. Still firmly, but it's hard to tell if that's just to hang on to me or because he's still in a lot of pain. I _do_ recognize the particular pattern to his breathing and the careful relaxation of his face and muscles. He's keeping at least some of the pain at bay just by willpower.

I call his attention with a small squeeze of his fingers, and when he opens his eyes and looks over at me I give a tiny smile. As big of one as I can manage with how much pain _I'm_ in. "We'll be alright," I promise.

He echoes my tiny smile, something soft and warm in his eyes. "I know. Have some interesting scars to show for all of this, though."

"Call it a souvenir."

He gives a bark of laughter, shaking his head as his mouth curls into a grin. "Fucking souvenirs," he breathes. "Morons."

I think it's the first time that thinking of Kid Flash doesn't hurt any more than a dull ache in the center of my chest, and I let myself crack a grin and squeeze his fingers again. "Right? That trophy room—"

"—was the dumbest idea," he finishes. "Everyone was always so insistent; gotta get a souvenir for _every_ mission. Like anyone was going to know what the hell the one random arrow on the wall meant in five years time, or that one tracker. You have _any_ idea what that was about?"

"I never payed close enough attention," I admit, with a shrug. "Totally ignored Nightwing when he tried to walk me through all the stories." I almost curse myself for bringing up Jason's predecessor, but his grin only falls a little bit.

Then he huffs out a breath, looking down at the floor between our two examination tables for a moment. "Yeah, me too." His tone is soft, almost fond but a little sad too. " _God_ , that man can just talk for forever." He's not meeting my eyes, but he doesn't look angry. Just, _hurt_.

"It's uh," Jason's head snaps up, and his fingers clench down around mine, "one of my talents." Nightwing is at the door, mostly hidden behind it but he steps out into full view as he speaks. Jason's expression closes off, and his fingers loosen again but don't let go. Honestly he looks like he's ready for a fight. Nightwing gives a small, careful smile; obviously he can see that Jason's waiting for something to tell him which edge of the knife to step off of. "Hey, Little Wing." His voice is soft, tinged with something like hope.

Jason swallows, stares for a second. Then, that careful guard eases a little bit. "Hey, Goldie."

Nightwing's smile flickers just a little wider. Slowly, he moves closer, and with some surprise I recognize the way he's approaching as the same way I do when Jason's under the influence of the Pit. Straight on so Jason can see him every moment, slow but not cautious, just giving enough time for Jason to stop him if he's going to. But he doesn't. He lets Nightwing move right up to us, and then take a seat on Jason's table with about three feet between them. Jason's gaze stays steady on him until he's seated, and then flicks towards the door, briefly.

Nightwing speaks first, with that small smile and a laughing tinge to his tone. "Still using that stupid nickname, hm?" My slight confusion must show — Goldie? — because Nightwing looks over at me, tilting his head as he shrugs. "Golden boy."

"Well, can't say the rest in polite company." Jason's voice is equally quiet, and the words are teasing but his tone doesn't match. Instead it's carefully measured, with just a little edge of pain. That could be emotional or physical, it's hard to say.

I take a glance between them, but Nightwing's looking at Jason again. "I can go," I offer, and Jason's gaze flicks to me as his fingers clench down.

"No, stay." I don't know if he wants me to play buffer, or just wants my support there, but it doesn't matter. I nod, returning the squeeze of his hand. I can see Nightwing's head tilt, and practice lets me track his hidden gaze to our hands, up to me, and then back to Jason through the miniscule tilts of his head.

"The two of you?" he asks.

Jason tenses, like he expects the question to end in an attack. "Is that a problem?" he demands, his mouth falling into a flat line and his eyes narrowing a little bit.

Nightwing gives a quiet laugh, and a smile that seems just a touch sad. "No, Little Wing. Congratulations." His head turns obviously towards me. "Anyone who makes my little brother happy has my approval, Arsenal. Thank you." I manage a small nod, glancing over at Jason. I can't tell whether his expression is guarded, pained, or something else entirely.

"What do you want?" Jason's voice is barely a whisper, but it gets Nightwing's attention as if it was a shout.

"To see if you're alright, for one. I heard what happened. Are both of you okay?"

I nod, and Jason gives a small shrug. "I'll live; seem to be good at doing that." There's something _hurt_ in his tone, but it doesn't sound like it's aimed at Nightwing. It just sounds like general pain, the kind I associate with his memories.

Nightwing's breath catches, _audibly_. Jason's mouth sets into a line that I think I'd actually call _nervous_. Then Nightwing is unbuckling his left glove and dropping it to the table before he reaches up. Every moment is slow, deliberate, and he looks like he's watching for even the smallest sign of rejection. Jason doesn't give one, except for a tiny flinch when Nightwing's bare fingers touch his temple. They carefully trace his hairline, and then Nightwing's face is cracking into a smile that's somewhere in the middle of joy and grief. I drop my gaze to the floor because it feels like I'm intruding, and that's the closest I can get to giving them privacy as long as Jason still wants me in the room.

"It's really you," Nightwing breathes. " _Jesus_ , Jason, I never even thought— I've missed you _so_ much." I can hear the rough sound of Jason taking in a shaky breath, but he doesn't speak. "I'm so sorry, Little Wing. What happened to you— I should have known, I should have—"

" _Stop_ ," Jason almost gasps, and it sounds like a plea. He lets go of my hand. "I _never_ blamed you for that, Nightwing. _Never_. What happened to me was my own fault, my mistake, I—"

There's the crinkle of fabric, the sound of bodies hitting each other, and Jason cuts off with a sharp, startled sound. I yank my head up, ready to get Nightwing the _hell_ away from Jason if he's done anything, and then go completely still at the sight.

Nightwing's arms are wrapped around Jason's chest, carefully leaving his arms free but holding him tight. His head is ducked down into Jason's shoulder, and he's probably hurting Jason at least a little bit considering the bruises he's pressing down on, but that probably doesn't matter. I look up at Jason to make absolutely sure that he doesn't need me to intervene — that this isn't going to trigger the Pit — but before I can even fully read his expression it collapses in on itself. His eyes squeeze shut, his mouth curls down into a grimace, and _pain_ is so easy to read it's a wonder he's not screaming with it. But he also folds forward into Nightwing, his arms rising to clutch at the black and blue armor spread over his brother's back as he presses his head down into the crook of Nightwing's shoulder and neck.

I can't see his expression anymore, but I can see the shallow, shaking rise and fall of his back as he breathes in and out. I can see the tension in his arms from how hard he's clinging, and the way Nightwing is folded around him.

"You're _alive_ ," Nightwing says, a short laugh following the words. "I— You sounded so _furious_ with me back in the main hall, I thought— I thought I'd done something, that you _hated_ me… Please tell me that's not true, Little Wing. Or if I did something just tell me what and I'll _fix_ it. I won't lose you again."

Jason shakes his head, tightening his grip for a moment. "Not you," he manages. "Just B, he's— I can't forgive him. Not yet." That's probably the most optimistic I've ever heard Jason be about his relationship with Batman.

"Damn, that's the other reason I'm here." Nightwing pulls a few inches away; not far enough to make Jason let go but far enough he can look him in the eye. "He's finishing up the last of the reports, dealing with stragglers and stuff, but then he's headed here. I—" Nightwing swallows. "I wanted to give you the choice. If you really don't want to talk to him, you've got roughly eight minutes or so to get out of the Watchtower, maybe a little more."

Jason stills, staring at Nightwing with something close to confusion. "You— You're leaving that up to me? You'd let me leave without an explanation or _anything?_ "

Nightwing's mouth twists into a crooked smile that looks gentle and fond. "No one ever got far by _making_ you do anything, Little Wing. If you want to go, I'm not going to stop you. That's your call to make. I _want_ you to stay though, for whatever that's worth."

He stays still for another moment, and then Jason gives a small nod. His hands slide down to either side of Nightwing's waist; still holding on, but not clutching anymore. "Alright," he agrees, voice cracking just a little in the middle of the word. "Had to happen eventually, might as well be on my terms." He huffs out a breath and lowers his head a couple inches. "We both know B would track me down and ambush me in my own home if I left without talking to him at least a little bit. Not down for that."

Nightwing echoes the less intensive grip, his hands resting lightly near Jason's hips. But he stays close, just a couple inches away. I think it's beyond impressive that Jason is letting him stay that close, and with that kind of a grip, especially while he's armed and Jason isn't. It speaks volumes for how much Jason must trust Nightwing, even though he hasn't seen him in years, and left on a bit of a sour note. Jason would let me do that, and maybe the other Roy as well, but not anyone else that I can think of. He's a lot better than he was, but this is still a big show of trust. It's possible Nightwing doesn't know that, but I do.

"Can I do anything for you?" Nightwing asks, voice pitched soft and low.

Jason hesitates, and then snorts. "Actually, a shirt would be really fucking nice. Mine was…" I don't know if the word he was thinking of was 'melted,' but he settles on, "Ruined. The information and medication from the medic too, if she has it ready. I—" He looks back up at Nightwing, something cautious and a little hurt in his eyes. "I don't want to be stuck here waiting for that." Stuck around Batman, more like, but Nightwing doesn't call him out on it.

"You got it, Little Wing." His hands draw back, picking up the discarded glove and tugging it back on as he looks to me. "You, Arsenal? Anything?"

I consider for a second, and then shake my head. "I'm good." Unlike Jason, whose armor had to be peeled off of him, they only had to cut me out of the one leg of my suit. Only down from the knee too. It's going to suck to get out of here — they'll probably put me on a crutch thanks to that stupid piece of rebar — but I've been told I'll be just fine, and at least I'm not missing pants. Once we're home, and I'm safe enough to take some of those heavy duty painkillers, things will be even better.

It's just getting out of here, past Batman, that's the tricky part.

Nightwing acknowledges my refusal with a nod, and then slides off the table and to his feet. One last touch to Jason's uninjured shoulder, gloved fingers tracing up to his neck, and then he steps back. "I'll be right back," he murmurs.

I watch him leave the room, and then turn my attention to Jason. "You alright?"

Jason pauses, and then looks up to meet my eyes. "Actually, yeah." He sounds disbelieving, but then he gives a crooked smile. He gets off his table, and crosses over to sit down next to me. He carefully picks my left side, where he can press his uninjured shoulder to mine, and my leg isn't in danger either. He leans into me, tilting his head in against mine. He carefully takes my gloved hand in his bare one, and I turn my head to look at him. "I'm alright," he breathes out, resting his forehead against mine.

"Good," I answer, carefully squeezing his fingers. "This is probably going to be a nasty confrontation." Jason winces, but doesn't move away from me. "You want me to stay quiet, leave the room?"

Jason gives a soft, nervous laugh. "Fuck _no_ , but it's probably best if we talk alone. You mind?"

"Course not; I get it." I tilt my head, and his eyes close as I brush my lips across his. The soft sound he exhales is just a little shaky, but he tilts into me and chases the brief contact. I let him, and I'd be a liar if I said that the contact doesn't reassure me too. Not that I doubted Jason, but it's another small sign that I can leave Jason alone and he'll probably be okay.

After a while Jason lowers his head, resting it on my shoulder. "I reserve the right to change my mind," he says, only barely loud enough that I can even hear his voice.

I lean my head down on top of his, turning my nose into his hair. "Always. Just hold on to me if you want me to stay; don't even have to say anything."

We stay like that until Nightwing steps back into the room, the medic at his heels. Even then, Jason only lifts his head. He doesn't pull away from my shoulder, or let go of my hand, or absolutely anything but lift his head enough to look at the two of them. I can feel the brief moment of tension through his shoulder, but it eases out of him in the next second. Nightwing tosses a balled up piece of white fabric at Jason — who snags it out of the air with his free hand — and then takes a seat across from us with a small smile. I can almost _feel_ him studying how Jason and I are in physical contact, but he doesn't say anything.

The medic engages Jason in conversation, talking about dosages, pills, and restrictions as she presses a sheaf of papers into his free hand. I watch him fold and tuck those away in one of the pockets of his grey cargo pants, as well as the capsules of medication that she immediately follows it up with. The singular crutch goes to me, and I grimace but set it next to me. I listen to her with half an ear, but I trust Jason to get the specifics, and what he doesn't immediately remember will be on those papers. I can read them over later, before I dose myself and pass out for a good few hours. Hopefully, with Jason at my side and warm against me, if equally drugged.

Finally she seems done, and excuses herself with a walk that suggests that she has other rooms with other patients to see to. It's only then that Jason lets go of my hand and unballs what turns out to be a regular white t-shirt, tugging it on over his head. I can see the tightening of his expression as he lifts his arms — hard to say whether it's the stitches in his side or the burn on his shoulder that gives him more trouble — but he doesn't pause. He almost looks normal again once the t-shirt is on, with the exception of that small, scabbed cut to the side of his left eye. Better than me; half my calf is bare and the other half is a wrap of white bandages to hold together the hole in my leg.

I don't know whether it's luck or that he was waiting, but only a second after Jason's settled the shirt into place a black shadow slips through the door. Jason tenses a lot more this time, and only halfway relaxes when Batman stops a good seven feet or so away. Nightwing's very still, but he doesn't say anything.

There's a few moments of stiff silence, and then Batman lowers his head just an inch from that perfect posture. "Jason."

Jason swallows, his fingers clenched down hard over mine. "B," he answers, his tone cautious and maybe a little angry already. No green in his eyes though, when I glance up at them, so things are fine for now. He's practically glued to my side though.

"Jay?" I pitch my voice low, make his name a question. Jason's gaze snaps over to meet mine, and I can see the torn struggle in his eyes but then he nods. His hand releases its hold on me, and I carefully pick up the crutch and fit it underneath the arm of my uninjured side, which happens to be the flesh one. Shame; probably would have been easier if the support was through my metal arm instead. "Call if you want me," I tell Jason, as I shift my weight to my feet. Which _burns_ , but I manage to not show much of the pain. Jason will know, but Jason always knows when I'm in pain.

He gives a second nod, and I take a few awkward steps with the crutch as I figure out how to walk with it. Batman shifts to the side to let me pass, and I make my way out of the room. I'm not oblivious to what it means that the door gets shut behind me, even though I wince. Shutting Jason into a room where he's already on defensive from the situation is not going to help. _Trapping_ Jason is never a good idea, unless he's willing to let you.

I take a glance around the outside corridor, and promptly bite my tongue to swallow back a curse.

"Really?" I ask, setting my teeth against each other and glaring at the man sitting in one of the chairs against the opposite wall. "You couldn't just let this one go?"

Oliver gives a crooked smirk, that _damn_ mask hiding his eyes. Not that I need to see his eyes to know that he's making that sad, hopeful, joking, _pitying_ expression. I hate that look. "Roy, can we just talk?" He pauses, as I hold my ground — what am I going to do, run? — and then adds, "Please?"

Well, he's just going to _stalk_ me if I don't sit down for a minute, and I guess half a year is basically enough time to give him the cold shoulder. I can at least _talk_. I huff out an irritated breath and wobble my way over to the row of chairs, taking one two seats to his left so there's an empty chair between us. I set the crutch down on my left, lean back against the wall, and cross my arms as I look over.

"So, talk."

He looks like he's fresh from the battlefield, pretty much. His suit is streaked in dirt and what I think might be alien blood, and his quiver is nearly empty, but it looks like he got through the fight basically unhurt. Point for him. I'm sure I look a hell of a lot worse, but I can't find it in me to be concerned that he might be worried I'm _hurt_. I am, and I took it with Jason at my side. _Not_ Oliver.

He sits up, turning partway toward me and meeting my gaze. "Are you alright?" he asks, almost desperately. "I heard what happened, and— Are you okay?"

"Fine," I answer, keeping my voice short and clipped. "Nothing that won't heal." I resist adding anything seriously inflammatory to the end of that sentence, even though I _could_ draw some parallels about things that won't heal.

"And your…" Oliver flounders. After a moment I realize that he's trying to find a way to describe Jason.

I let him search for a few awkward seconds, and then supply, "Partner?" Oliver nods, with a twist of his mouth that doesn't look particularly happy. I narrow my eyes, defensive instinct rising because oh _fuck_ no, that's not alright. "He'll be fine, and you're going to wipe that look off of your face because honestly I couldn't care less what you think of him. I made my choice, and _you_ don't get a say in it. Got that?"

Oliver's mouth tightens, but then he gives a clearly forced smile and a nod. "Got it. Not a word." He shoves out a breath, smile fading away. "Roy, come _home_. Please. I didn't hear anything about you for months, I didn't even know if you were still _alive_ except on Red's word. _Please_ , just come home."

My jaw clenches. "No." He winces, opens his mouth like he's going to say something, and I cut him off before he can even start. "Look, I'm not interested in talking with you, Oliver. You left me in a pod for _five years_ , and I'm _really_ not up for you trying to somehow fix that. You can't, and I don't want to." He looks a bit like I sucker punched him, and it feels pretty damn good so I go on. "I don't want your pity, and I was sick of you treating me like I was either some piece of fragile glass or one step away from a psychotic break a _long_ time ago. You need to back the _fuck_ off, get your head on straight, and come back when you're ready to look at me as an _equal_ , not a victim."

"Roy—"

" _No_. I'm not your son, I'm not your sidekick, and I'm not your responsibility." I turn myself to face him head on, uncrossing my arms and baring my teeth for just a second. I can't really pull off threatening with the injured leg, but I give it my best shot. "Find some other kid who will buy your 'family' bullshit, because I _have_ a home, Oliver. It's with _Jason_. I'm living my own life with or without your permission, so get on board or leave me alone."

Oliver stares at me for a few seconds, somewhere between shocked and hurt. Then he shakes his head, flashes me another forced smile, and says, "Got it. Loud and clear." He slowly gets to his feet, stares for another moment, and then turns to go. His shoulders are a little bowed, but I pull my gaze away and settle back into the chair.

Just in time for the door across the way to slam open, and a seriously _pissed_ looking Jason to come through. I immediately reach for my crutch as he whirls around, looking poised to spring and just a few steps away from some kind of violence. There's only the slightest thread of green in his eyes, but it's enough to make me hurry. A little can turn into a lot pretty quickly.

" _Fuck_ you," Jason snarls at Batman, who followed pretty much at his heels. Nightwing is a shadow over the Bat's shoulder, but he looks a lot less threatening than Batman currently does. "If all you wanted was to recite your stupid rules at me you should have just said. Could have saved us both a lot of wasted fucking time."

I brace on my good leg, figuring out how close Jason is to either running or fighting, and what that _expression_ on the lower half of Batman's face is. That cowl really isn't helpful when it comes to reading him, though apparently Jason has enough experience at it to make it work. I get just a little bit of his mood from the square of his shoulders, the tight line of his mouth, and the tense muscle in his jaw. He's angry, or at least upset. Whatever it is, Jason isn't reacting well. Too much more and he's going to do _something_ ; one particularly bad thing could probably make him snap in a _really_ bad way.

To stop that, I take a halting step forward and murmur, "Jay."

He doesn't look at me, but Jason does step back towards me. He seems to know where I am, more or less, because he ends up at my side. He still doesn't look over at me, but his body is tilted towards mine even if he's focused on Batman, and that gives me enough to work with. I shift a little closer, reaching out with my metal hand to curl it around his clenched fist. I have to slowly ease it into opening for me, and then I tangle my fingers with his. _Then_ he glances at me.

Without another word he moves like he's going to pick me up, and only instinct makes me hiss and make a sharp, protesting noise. "Jay, _no_. You've got stitches in your side; you're _not_ picking me up." He jerks to a stop at my side, and then leans into my shoulder. His face buries itself against my shoulder, and I can feel the faint tremble that sweeps through him. Words or aggressive actions aside, Jason is _not_ alright.

Lucky that I've had a lot of practice dealing with Jason when he's not alright.

I meet Batman's gaze — even tighter than before; don't tell me that he's disapproving of our relationship on _top_ of all of this — with as much determination as I can muster, holding my ground and squeezing my fingers around Jason's with as much strength as I know I can use without hurting him. "You need to _back_ off," I tell Batman, ignoring the fluttery, nervous, _scared_ part of me that's laughing at the fact I'm trying to give _Batman_ an order.

"You don't know what we were discussing," Batman grinds out, as Nightwing worms out from behind him and through the too-narrow gap left between his bulk and the doorframe.

"I don't need to," I counter. "I don't _care_. Come on, Jay, let's go home." I lower my voice as I ask, "That's what you want, right?"

He shifts in what I'm almost sure is a tiny nod, and then straightens just enough that he can pull his head away from my shoulder. I put myself between him and the Bats as we start down the corridor, too slow because of my injured leg and the crutch, but it's not like we could have outpaced the Batman even if we were running. Especially not with Nightwing right there. So instead I just keep half an eye on both of them, and _wish_ I could be surprised when Batman follows with only a few seconds of grace. Instead I just aim a glare at him, and focus on the way that Jason swaps which hand of his I'm holding, and then his left arm circles my low back to help support me.

I might not say anything, but I appreciate it. Without anything to numb the pain out, putting even a little pressure on my injured leg hurts like a _bitch_. I will be so glad when we're alone and safe enough for painkillers.

"Jason, _stop_." Batman's voice is a growl of command, and I squeeze Jason's hand as he flinches and stalls for a fraction of a second.

"Just as far as the zeta tube," I whisper. "Stay with me, Jay." He obeys me, stuttering back into action and keeping pace with my lopsided, awkward stride.

Nightwing slips past all of us, and then darts ahead and out towards the main hall. I don't know why, but he seems in a hurry, and he doesn't stop to say anything, so it's not my problem. I think Nightwing is decent enough not to trap us in here, considering he was willing to let Jason leave before Batman even had the chance to speak with him. Whatever he's doing probably isn't a bad thing for us.

When we actually get into the hall, it's clear what Nightwing did. He cleared the room; apart from us — he's standing near the tubes — the room is empty, except for the League's two Green Lanterns, which are both floating near the ceiling and involved in a conversation of their own. The black one, and the white one with brown hair; I don't actually know either of their names, and calling them both 'Green Lantern' can get a little confusing. I guess this is why sectors are only really supposed to have one of them.

We get halfway across the room before Batman shouts, " _Jason!_ "

That's too much for me to counter, and Jason freezes and then turns back. I turn myself with him, no matter how strange and painful it is to have to balance on one leg and a crutch. His hand is still resting on my waist, and the other is still linked with my metal fingers. Only a little bit of green in his eyes, but everything else in his stance and his expression says he does _not_ want to be here. I need to get him through one of those tubes as soon as possible.

Batman draws to a stop, and I carefully take stock of where Nightwing is — still by the tubes — and where the Green Lanterns are — at the ceiling, but their conversation is done and they're watching — before I allow myself to focus down on him. Jason has no such split of attention, his gaze is for the Bat and no one else.

"What do you want from me?" Jason asks, his voice low and rough. Not quite shaking, but definitely not totally steady either.

Batman's jaw clenches for a second. "Just to talk, Jason. I want to understand."

I can feel the way Jason stiffens, and see the _anger_ that answer brings slamming to the front of his emotional range. "Fucking _liar_. We were talking, until you called me crazy and a _murderer_." I wince, and let myself shift into Jason's side a little bit for physical support. "If you wanted to understand you'd _listen_ for a change, but that's never going to happen and I should never have even _considered_ that it would. Fuck off, B."

Batman's head tilts towards me, and I didn't think it would be possible but somehow his jaw tightens further. "What is _this?_ " he demands. "Of all the people you could choose; _Arsenal?_ You're just a kid, Jason. You're too young for that kind of a choice."

That prompts _fury_ from Jason, even as I recoil a little bit. But before any of us can say anything Green Lantern — the white one — is settling between us and Batman, with his head turned towards the Bat. He doesn't look happy, but none of it seems to be aimed at us.

"Batman, that's _enough_."

"This isn't your—"

" _Enough!_ " Green Lantern shouts, squaring off with Batman and not backing down even a little despite the absolutely _terrifying_ snarl that leaves the Bat's throat. How can a normal human be that scary? "Batman, you didn't see what happened in the battle earlier. You need to leave what's between them alone." Batman seems _furious_ at the reprimand, but Green Lantern only stands tall and straight between us and him. "Whatever's between you and Red Hood is your business; I'm not going to interfere. But whatever Red and Arsenal are to each other you need to leave the hell alone. Leave it be; his choice of partner isn't anyone's choice but his own."

"It's not _healthy—_ " Jason _stiffens_ , but the Green Lantern cuts Batman off first.

"The only way it's not _healthy_ ," he snaps, "is that both of them were willing to suffer or die for the other." He crosses his arms, and now he's at an angle where I can't see his face, but his voice drops to steel determination. "I'll move when you promise to leave their personal relationship out of this, and not one second before. You're out of line and you know it, Bats."

Jason is still tense, but he's gone from furious to shocked. His hand is tight around mine, and the hand at the small of my back is clenched into a fist but not gripping me, which I appreciate because I'm still pretty sore across most of my torso. There's nothing serious, made sure of that when the medic checked me over, but I'm going to be pretty bruised for awhile. Jason got the worse end of this, as far as I'm concerned.

Batman glares, and Jason twitches in a shudder. Nothing big enough to be noticed, but enough that I can feel it through the press of my side to his.

"Jay?" I murmur, looking up at him. His gaze flicks to me. "We can go; you don't have to do this." It's probably not loud enough for Batman to hear, but it's hard to say that with certainty.

Jason stares down at me, and then it's like something clicks in his head. His eyes widen a little, realization sharp in their depths, and then he relaxes some and I can see that edge of green fade out of his gaze. I give him a bit of a look, wondering what he's thinking, but he just shakes his head. He leans into me, his mouth brushing mine for a second. Then he squeezes my hand, lets go, and turns to face Batman.

"It's alright, Lantern." Jason's voice might be quiet, but it's also steady. Green Lantern looks back, reads Jason's expression, and then gives a small nod and steps to the side. A moment later he's heading back to the ceiling, by the black Green Lantern, who definitely doesn't look pleased that his partner intervened. Jason doesn't even glance up, as far as I can see.

Batman shifts — he _does_ noticeably glance up — and then focuses on Jason. "Listen—"

" _No_ ," Jason snaps, head lowering an inch or so in what's obviously supposed to be threat. " _You_ listen, B. This is how this is going to work. You want me back, you want to talk, you want to _fix_ all of this, and I _don't_. I don't give a single fuck what your stupid pity party is about, or what reason you've made up for why I'm just _wrong_ because I'm not being helpful and obedient. Shut the _fuck_ up." His teeth bare, and then he snorts. "I'm not willing to forgive you, B. I don't want to listen to your explanations, your apologies, or your accusations. Not yet anyway. Maybe that changes someday, and maybe it doesn't. Right now I don't feel like lying to make you feel like you've done the right thing and you're not at fault."

Jason draws in a deeper breath, shoulders rising just a touch. "You're going to leave me the fuck alone until whatever time that I decide I can stomach listening to your bullshit. That's not fucking negotiable. If you track, stalk, or try and contact me we're _done_ , and you will _never_ get that forgiveness you're so damn insistent on." His jaw clenches, and I can hear the snarl in his voice as he spits, "And if I was old enough to fight your damn war then, I'm _damn_ sure I'm old enough to choose who I trust to _fuck_ me now." Batman twitches in what I think is actually a _flinch_. "So fuck off, B. Either stay away, or give up all rights to me; there's no in between."

I watch, speechless, as Jason steps back, and blindly reaches out to curl his fingers through my metal ones. "Come on, Roy. We're done here."

I follow his gentle pull, but I'm still speechless even as he lets go of my hand and winds that arm around my waist instead. He takes more of my weight than he should be, with the stitches in his opposite side and the shoulder he's supporting me with being burned pretty badly, but I can't find the words to stop him doing that either. The pain grounds me some, bringing me out of shock because each step is a bit like my leg's being impaled again. I'm suddenly really fucking glad I don't remember what it must have felt like when the rebar went in; hooray for unconsciousness.

Jason pauses near the zeta tube closest to us, as he draws even with Nightwing. Nightwing who looks a little hurt, and wary, but doesn't have even a faint trace of disapproval in his expression. "Do I get the same goodbye?" he asks, his tone implying he's joking but the shaking flash of a smile confirming he's definitely _not_. I don't think I've ever seen Nightwing quite as visibly afraid as he looks in that moment.

Jason hesitates, then tilts his head towards the ground and whispers, "I'm not the person you knew, Nightwing. He's— It's too late."

Nightwing relaxes as if someone has flipped a switch. His step forward is slow, and the hand that touches Jason's far shoulder is even more so. "So I'll have fun relearning who you are now," he answers, with a smile that looks _much_ more real. Then he leans in, and I feel something like shock as Jason lets Nightwing press a soft kiss to his forehead. "Good luck, Little Wing. Arsenal," I snap to attention as much as I can; ingrained habits, "whatever anyone says you're good for him. I can see it. Take care of yourselves."

He slips out of sight, moving back towards Batman, and Jason watches him go. Only for a moment, and then he's nudging me forward with his knuckles to my side. I go, mostly because I'm half convinced that Jason will pick me up if I don't, damn the consequences of what might happen to him. I am not interested in seeing Jason pop his stitches and fold over again; the blood will show more clearly on a white shirt, and the more blood is visible the more it will scare me.

I barely even notice that we've stepped into the actual zeta tube until the voice announces, " _Recognize, Arsenal. B25. Recognize, Robin. B13."_

Jason's head tilts up, and he calls, "Red Hood, B13. Update." There's a faint acknowledging bing from the computer, and then I shut my eyes as the yellow light brightens to blinding levels.

When it fades, and my eyelids are black again, I open them and find myself standing back in that phone booth. Jason is at my side, and as I watch him he looks down at me. There's something soft in his gaze, and then he tilts his head back for a moment and lets out a long breath.

" _Fuck_ , that went better than I thought it would." He turns towards me, hand resting at my side as his other one comes forward and traces down my opposite shoulder. "You— You're incredible, Roy. You know that?"

"Me?" I echo, and then let loose a snort. "You just faced down the _Batman_ , and won. If either one of us deserves some praise, it's you." To that end I reach up, lightly tangling my metal fingers through his hair. Then I draw him into a kiss, keeping it soft and slow because even if I wanted Jason right now, we're both too hurt to make that happen. "Let's go home, Jay," I murmur between our mouths, and he echoes the sentiment with a nod and a smile that only lasts for a moment before it vanishes.

"Of course. Lead the way, Roy."

* * *

Welcome to the end! Hope you've enjoyed, leave a review to tell me your thoughts, and I'll see you next time!


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